Bad Boys
by Loconut321
Summary: It's been 10 years since Dean left the Winchesters to live with Sonny. When John mysteriously disappears on a hunt, Sam finds himself alone. It's only by chance that the hunter meets Gabe; a "hunting specialist" with a passion to help Sam in any way he can. The two become partners in crime, and discover that they are the only ones who can save the Earth. AU Canon Divergent
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Wendigo

ooo

There wasn't a lot Sam Winchester could remember about his brother.

It had been ten years since they had seen one another, and neither of them had kept in contact. But Sam always believed it was for the best. Frankly, Dean had deserved better than the life of a hunter. He was glad he had been able to get out so soon. On the other hand, Sam hadn't been so lucky.

The younger brother had been just over twelve when John had found a black dog hunt somewhere in the state of New York. Back then his father had a habit of leaving Sam with Bobby Singer and others while he and Dean went out on jobs. Unfortunately, this time the older brother had landed in some trouble. He was sent to a juvenile delinquent farm run by a hard-working man named Sonny.

By the time John had finished up with the black dog, picked Sam up, and headed over to the farm; it had been too late. Sonny had greeted them begrudgingly, and after a moment announced that Dean would be staying with him. Sam didn't remember many of the details; he was preoccupied with a toy plane at the time.

"Dean deserves a better life than what you've been giving him," the older man had said, arms folded across his chest.

"Bullshit. We're a family and we stick together. He has a better chance with me than he does here," John retorted viciously.

"Like hell," Sonny spat, "From what I've heard, you treat him like a soldier. He's sixteen. _Sixteen._"

"He's still my son. Send him out here; now."

"Listen, you keep pressing this and I'll bring the authorities in. What you're doing is child abuse, Mr. Winchester. I won't stand for it."

That seemed to sober John up. Next thing the younger brother knew; they were on the road again. The car rides seemed quieter from then on, more tense.

Sam would always remember the last time he had spoken to Dean. They had fought over the last slice of pizza. Somehow he had ended up in a headlock, and went to sleep that night with an empty stomach. It was a shame that that was the way they had to part.

The weeks that followed were brutal. Without Dean to focus his attentions on, John turned towards Sam. In hindsight, the Winchester was certain John's intentions were to prepare him for the worst.

The older hunter drilled Sam on everything. He turned the pudgy little boy into a toned machine; set to take on whatever challenges he would have to face. It started out innocent enough; John taught him the lore, tactics, and skills he may one day need to save his life. But after a while something changed.

John changed. The hunt had consumed him. Without Dean, Sam was all he had left. He became obsessed with shaping the younger brother into the man he wanted. The drills became increasingly ruthless. The Winchester struggled to keep up with it all. The more time that passed with Dean gone, the less human his father seemed.

But they were a family, and John was all Sam had left too. So the pair stuck together. Eventually he was deemed ready to take on a real hunt; and off they went. He was fourteen. Two years had passed since Sonny's, and his father was now a different person. But so was the younger brother.

"Sam!" the older Winchester barked from the other side of the parked Impala. "Get your head out of the clouds and help me get ready."

"Yes sir," the hunter replied stiffly, making his way to the trunk. John was rummaging under the false floor, shifting through their arsenal of weapons.

"Where did you put the flare guns?" he asked, frowning at the scene before him.

"You put them in the backseat in the pack," Sam responded; sounding vaguely annoyed.

"Don't keep me waiting then. Go get them! I didn't realize you needed to be told. That wendigo isn't going to miraculously burst into flames."

"Sorry sir," the hunter replied.

"'Sorry' doesn't save any lives," the older man snapped, slamming the trunk shut and making the car rock for a moment. "I'll get the provisions; we probably won't be back until tomorrow."

Sam grunted in agreement, ducking into the back seat of the car and pulling out a worn fabric backpack. Slinging it over one shoulder, he closed the door behind him and locked it. Returning to his father who now had a bag of his own, he handed a flare gun to him. John accepted it with a nod.

"Are we ready to go then?" the younger hunter asked.

"Should be," the other man grunted lowly. "If we hurry, we should be able to make it to the campgrounds by sundown. Don't want to get stuck in the woods during the night. We'd better leave now if we want a chance to kill this thing."

"Right," the younger hunter muttered, following his father into the forest. It quickly grew dark as they walked along in silence, save for the snapping of twigs and the swishing of foliage as it brushed their ankles. Out of habit, the Winchester fiddled with the small flip knife nestled deep in his pocket.

_Click_, he opened it.

_Click_, he closed it.

_Click, _he opened it

And so on. John had given him the blade when he was eleven, and it had gotten him out of quite a few sticky situations. He liked to think of it as lucky. The hunter kept it on his person as often as possible, a good routine for a hunter.

Sam checked his wristwatch. They had been walking now for a few hours. They must be near the campgrounds by this point.

"Do you think we're close?" he inquired.

"You sound like a child," his father countered, agitated. "How the hell should I know?"

For some reason, John had been more and more on edge lately. He had noticed he had been getting less sleep than usual, and had been drinking frequently. Sam wished he knew why. "It was just a question," he defended. It was almost as if his father was afraid of something.

"Just be quiet and keep walking, that's an order."

"You're treating me like I'm ten," the hunter retorted. "You have the map, not me. I just want to know how far away this place is."

"You're my son, and you'll do what I say."

"I'm your _partner_ too," he replied heatedly. "We need to work together if we want to get this job done right. And we can't do that if you're barking orders! I'm just as good a hunter as you are, you said it yourself."

John's voice became low, serious. "I'm still your father and you'll do what I say when I say it."

Sam knew when to stop arguing, even if he was anything but placated. Angrily, the hunter followed his father deeper and deeper into the woodlands.

The trees swayed in the wind, their leaves turning the color of pirate's gold. An earthy musk filled the air, perfumed with the sharp scent of clean air. The evening birds sang loudly over the crickets. Sam pulled his jacket tighter as the evening grew chilly.

"There, just ahead," the older man said suddenly; pointing through the trees. Through the foliage Sam could make out the beige canvas of two tents. The pair continued towards it, fighting their way out of the undergrowth and into the clearing.

The campsite seemed to be empty. The fire at the center had obviously been unlit for hours. Sam held a hand near its surface. Colder than the grave.

"Check that tent," John commanded, motioning towards the smaller of the two structures. Without replying, the Winchester headed over. Unzipping the entrance, he peered inside. Despite being dimly lit, he could make out signs of a struggle. Supplies were strewn haphazardly everywhere possible, the sleeping bags had been torn to pieces. Stains of dry blood marred the fabric walls. To an untrained eye, it would seem a bear or some other large predator had attacked the campers. To Sam however, it was obvious the wendigo was the culprit. Long claw marks, too fine to be a bear's, had sliced through the back wall of the tent. Muddy human-like prints appeared wherever the monster had stepped.

"Dad, whoever was here is long gone. We missed it by a couple hours, it looks like."

"Which way did it go?" John called back.

"North."

"Excellent," the reply came, "we can still catch it before dark. How many were there?"

Sam glanced back into the tent. "Two. It looks like the wendigo was strong enough to drag them both away at once. One was conscious, the other had passed out."

"Good job Sam," John said absently. "Tell you what, I'll scout ahead. If I'm not back within ten minutes, go on without me. Remember, it can mimic human sounds. Be careful."

"I will." Sam knew that, but he appreciated the tip nevertheless. Quietly, he watched as his father disappeared into the trees; a purpose in his step. He waited until the darkness swallowed the figure whole.

He hadn't expected John to return within the ten minutes, but he was disappointed anyways when he didn't return. Sighing, he tugged the backpack higher on his shoulder and set off north, leaving the campsite behind him.

His face slipped into a stony mask as he entered the forest. This area was thicker than what he had previously encountered. Branches snapped at his face like angry snakes, biting his skin and leaving red marks. The hunter hardly noticed. Sam, for as big as he was, tried to stay as quiet as possible as to not attract the attention of the wendigo. But even he had his limits.

Eventually, after so long crashing through the underbrush, the Winchester stumbled upon what seemed to be an abandoned mineshaft. Jackpot! There was little doubt in his mind that this is where the monster hibernated. Pulling out a small flashlight, he entered the cool tunnel.

The mine was cold and dark. Every sound he made echoed off the walls. Water dripped from the walls and the ceiling. A draft picked up as the Winchester walked deeper into the tunnel. Idly, Sam wondered if John had found this place yet. He listened for any sign of his father but turned up with nothing but his own footsteps.

_How far down does this shaft go? _The hunter mused after a long while. He hadn't come across any branches yet; so far it had been a relatively straight shot onwards. Shining the flashlight further down the tunnel, all he saw was a pile of wooden boards left in the middle of his path.

As he approached the pile, he noticed that up ahead was a dead end. Fantastic, the wendigo wasn't here after all. He had been so sure…

The moment Sam stepped onto the planks; they gave way under his weight. With a resounding crash, the hunter fell through the floor, splinters flying every which way. Thudding onto a rough, stone floor; the Winchester lay stunned. It seemed he had discovered a hidden room, but now everything within a mile radius would know he was here. Sam had to work fast… as soon as he could feel his legs again.

Groaning, the hunter struggled to sit up. A few small shafts of silver moonlight leeched into the cavern from cracks near the roof, allowing him the decency to see. Feeling around, he found his backpack; thankfully intact. The flashlight he had just been using seemed to have been broken in the fall. Luckily he had brought an extra. Let nobody say he came unprepared to a hunt.

Switching on the spare, he examined his surroundings. The hidden room was large; spikes of stone rose from the floor and fell from the ceiling. Sam clambered to his feet, bumping into something soft. Whirling around, he came face to face with a body strung like a pig from a particularly large stalagmite.

"Mmphf, who's there?" the person croaked hoarsely.

"Shh shh shh, it's okay," Sam cautioned, "I'm here to help." Quickly, Sam pulled out the flip knife from his pocket and reached up to cut the bonds holding the kid midair. Silently, he thanked god for making him so damn tall. "Are you alone?"

"My sister," the boy rasped.

"Don't worry, we'll get her. I'm going to get you both out of here," the hunter comforted him. "What's your name?"

"Ben Collins."

"Okay Ben, I'm going to drop you in three. One, two, _three_." The rope snapped, and the Winchester caught the boy before he fell to the rough, stone ground. "There you go, on your feet."

Ben wobbled before getting his balance. "My sister was over there," he said, pointing to a particularly dark corner. Sure enough, Sam could faintly make out another body hanging suspended in the air.

The hunter made short work of her bonds as well. However, when she too was cut loose; she remained unconscious. There was no time to wake her up. "We need to go, Ben. I'll carry her until she regains consciousness. I'm sure your sister will be fine."

"What happened? Why are we down here?" the boy asked, sounding as if he wanted to cry. "Who are you?"

"I'm a park ranger," the Winchester lied.

"What happened to us? What was that thing that grabbed us?"

"I'm not sure," Sam said, evading the question. "We'll figure that out later. Right now we need to get you and your sister out of here."

"Okay," Ben replied, disorientated.

Just then, he felt the girl draped over his shoulder stir. "What…?"

"Haley!" the boy cried, leaping forward towards his sister. "You're okay!" he shouted hoarsely.

"Shh!" Sam cautioned, "We need to be quiet," he pointed out as he slowed to a stop and set Haley down on the floor. "How are you feeling, Haley?" the Winchester asked.

"Like shit," she answered, rubbing her head with one hand. "Who are you?"

"I'm a park ranger," he answered; trying his best to look the part. However, she didn't look convinced. "Listen, we can't wait for you to recover. We need to get out of here; now."

"I don't understand, what's happening? How did we get here? Something attacked us in our tent; that's all I can remember," the girl rattled off, looking slightly panicked. "We were looking for our brother because he came out here to camp and we haven't seen him since. Did whoever who took us take him too?"

Ben let out a dry sob. That seemed to get her attention. She hobbled to her feet, using the wall to help her balance. Putting her other arm around her brother's shoulder, she sighed. "What do we do?" Haley asked; a new note of confidence in her voice. She was trying to protect her brother in the only way she knew how.

"We get the hell out of dodge. Come on, follow me." The hunter led the way up through the tunnel, hopefully towards the surface. The passage was long and wide, its corners lost in darkness. The wendigo could be hiding anywhere at any time. The flashlight wasn't strong enough to illuminate much, and that was setting him on edge.

"Uh, Sam?" Ben's voice resonated from behind him from where he was supporting Haley. It echoed off the walls of the shaft, giving it an eerie pitch. "I think I saw something moving behind us."

A tall, spindly creature leapt out at them from behind a corner on all fours. It screeched inhumanly, swiping a clawed hand at Ben, who was white with terror at that point. Haley on the other hand was more on the ball; snatching the boy and dragging him away from the beast. The wendigo in turn snarled, lurching forward; bringing itself to stand on its own two feet. It stood over the trio, tall and imposing; gnashing its bloody teeth together in a grin straight out of a nightmare.

"Get back!" Sam shouted, digging a flare gun out of his backpack.

The brother and sister stumbled away from the monster, both terrified out of their wits. The creature leapt forward, knocking the hunter to the floor and tore at his clothes. Blood welled up in the open wounds, hot against his cold skin. Its hot, rancid breath heaved into Sam's face, making the Winchester nearly puke. Thick, red foam dripped from its gums and onto the hunter's neck. Kicking the wendigo off of him, it rolled onto all fours; preparing to strike again.

Whipping out the flare gun, Sam took aim and fired. The creature bounded out of the way, and the rebounding missile exploded farther down the tunnel. The wendigo was momentarily blinded. The hunter took that opportunity to dig out another flare. Aiming more carefully this time, Sam fired. The projectile landed it square in the chest.

With a sound similar to a wolf that's leg had just been hacked off, the thing screamed in pain. It clawed at its chest, trying to dig the flare out. It was too late. Soon the wendigo's flesh burned into ashes and fell in clumps off of its skeleton. With a final, pained cry; the monster was reduced into dust.

Letting out a pent-up sigh, Sam clambered up from the ground, brushing dirt off of his clothes as he went. He groaned as the lacerations twisted and ripped. New wells of blood spouted from his chest. Turning to Haley and Ben, he found them wide-eyed and silent, staring at him like he too was going to go up in flames at any moment.

"Are you guys alright?" Sam asked eventually.

"Y-yeah," Haley answered unsurely. "Shouldn't _we _be the ones asking _you_ that?"

The hunter chuckled lightly. "Let's get out of here, alright? I'll explain everything later."

"Okay."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: The Leaving Note

ooo

Sam had explained what he could to Ben and Haley, making sure to stress the point never to tell anyone what he had said; otherwise it merited a one way ticket to an asylum. After the usual accusations, they seemed to believe him.

"So you hunt monsters?" Ben asked; looking interested yet appalled.

"Yeah, pretty much."

"Whoa, neat," Ben breathed in amazement.

Sam shrugged, turning from the boy to his sister. "Listen, I'm sorry I we couldn't find your brother. If it wasn't for the police, I would head right back into those tunnels and I wouldn't come back until I found him."

Haley let out a long sigh. "I understand. The police will probably find him, now that that… _wendigo_ is dead."

Sam did not have the supplies to patch the sibling up, and he had feared what would happen to them if they had made the long trek back to the Impala. So instead, he begrudgingly made the decision to call the police. It was morning now, and the real park rangers would be arriving within the hour. So he did what he could with the meager roll of bandages he had brought and left the rest up to the professionals.

Haley smiled warmly at Sam, who managed a faint grin back. His grin quickly turned into a grimace as he pulled the last binding tight over his chest. Wincing, he pulled his shirt back over his head.

"Well," he said, standing up. "I think I should be going now. The real park rangers are on their way, and if you just stick to your stories, this will all blow over pretty fast. There shouldn't be any problems; people only believe what they want to believe.

He turned and with a final wave,

"Sam? Wait!" Haley called suddenly, grabbing his sleeve pulling Sam backwards.

"Hmm?"

Haley ran up to him, stood on her toes and pecked the hunter on his cheek. The hunter felt the color rising in his cheeks. "Uh, thanks?" he stammered.

"That's for saving our asses," she said, smiling before turning, returning to her stunned little brother.

Giving a wave that was symbolic of their final goodbye, Sam slid into the frost-covered woods of Blackwater Ridge.

The air was colder than it had been the night before, and the fact that Sam's jacket was still soaked in his own blood wasn't helping in the least. He could manage, at least for a few hours. It hadn't been the first time he had been in this situation and it certainly wasn't going to be the last.

Birds chirped in the pine trees around him merrily, and a squirrel ran across one of his shoes, its mouth full of nuts. The Winchester suddenly found himself idly flipping his knife open and shut in one hand; a nervous habit he'd had for a long time. He could remember when it started. There had been some kind of poltergeist haunting a small town somewhere in Utah. He had been sixteen when he and John had gone to investigate. Under no circumstances should it have been a difficult hunt. That was before they knew about the witch that had also been running around during the time.

It had been raining, so Sam had gone under an overhang while John dug up the grave. That was when the witch had decided to kidnap the fifteen-year-old Sam Winchester; taking him to her house in a neighboring town. John was too preoccupied with the hunt to notice until the next morning.

The old woman liked to test new ideas for 'potions' on unwilling subjects; and Sam just happened to be unlucky enough to be the one she got her hands on. The mixtures consisted of various substances, mostly from Sam. She took fingernails, drafts of skin, and too much blood. The witch removed as much as she could without killing him. At the time, he wasn't sure if he should count himself lucky. Supposedly, she was trying to raise Satan.

John eventually saved him two days later, and all he said was "Should've used that knife. That's why I gave it to you anyways." Sam never really put it away after then.

The day lagged onwards, and the hunter soon found himself gazing upon the Impala, left still in pristine condition. There was no sign John had returned here yet.

Pulling the key from a zipped pocket on the inside of his jacket, he unlocked the door to the driver's seat and plopped down, exhaling sharply. After a few moments of just breathing in the leathery interior car smell, he sat up and made to stick the key into the ignition. Something white at the corner of his vision caught his eye before he could do so.

It was John's journal.

_Oh shit_, Sam thought, _dad doesn't go anywhere without that._

Quickly viewing the notebook, he found it to be turned to a blank page, with only a few simple words written on it.

_I knew you could handle it._

Below the black inked words was written a small string of numbers – obviously coordinates. He knew his father's handiwork anywhere. In fact, they had been to that particular place before as well; clearing out a nest of vampires. It was an old abandoned shoe factory from the '20s about 200 miles from where he sat at the moment.

Gritting his teeth, he pulled out his cell phone from the glove compartment. He and John had left them here in the car because there had been no way they would actually get service up in the mountains. Sam shuffled through the other phones, noticing that John's was gone.

"Son of a bitch," the Winchester growled. What game was the older hunter playing? Was this some kind of test? Hadn't he already proved himself enough to his father?

Rubbing the back of his neck absently, Sam dialed John's speed dial, turning on the speaker. It rang once, twice, three times…

"_Sorry Sam, I'm busy right now. Leave a message; we'll talk later."_

_Beep._

"Dad, where are you? Why did you leave me without telling me? Is this some kind of a test?" Sam found himself saying angrily. "You didn't like it when _I _leave without warning _you_ first! Call me back, okay?"

He hit the end button and tossed the cell phone onto the passenger's seat.

The hunter let out a sigh. He might as well head towards that old shoe factory; see if he could track John down himself. He couldn't have gotten ridiculously far with only a few hours head start. He turned on the engine and pulled onto the road, heading south towards his destination. Once he was situated, Sam turned on his iPod jack, giving the ride a quiet background noise.

It was about an hour later when Sam decided to stop to eat. It was one in the afternoon and the roadside diner was bustling. Apparently, it was a quality place. Situating himself on a bar stool, he waited to be served.

A short man, probably in his thirties, walked over to the Winchester, brandishing a pen and a notebook. He had a friendly face, smiling widely at Sam, who smiled slightly in return. "What can I get you, sir?" he asked, waggling his eyebrows ridiculously.

"Black coffee and a Caesar salad for here would be nice."

"Anything else?" the man said, leaning forward ever so slightly.

"No," the Winchester replied, looking down at the table.

"Alright then. You look like you went ten rounds with a bear and lost; what's got you so down?"

"Family problems," he muttered, only just loud enough to let the other man hear.

"Siblings?"

"My dad," he admitted.

"Oh, I see," the man said. "Well, if I know anything about dads, it's that sometimes, you just don't _get_ them. Something happens, and you're left wondering what went wrong."

Sam looked up from the beige bar top, considering his waiter. He seemed serious enough.

"I know what you mean," the hunter admitted.

"Got anyone else to go to?"

"Not really. I had a brother once, but he is gone now."

"Gone?" the man said, surprised. Sam had been expecting something more along the lines of pity, or even understanding if he was lucky. Surprise was not one of those things. Why was he surprised?

"I don't really want to talk about it…" the hunter looked for a nametag, "Gabe."

"Sure, no problem. Since you know my name, it's only polite to tell me yours."

"Uh, my name's Sam."

"Nice to meet you Sam. I'll be right back with your order."

The man flounced off.

The Winchester was picking at his nails when Gabe returned, holding a large ceramic cup, a pitcher full of coffee and a plate piled high with all the ingredients to a salad. He dropped them in front of Sam like one would give a treat to a puppy.

"So," Gabe began, leaning against the counter, "Where are you heading? I know the look of a man on a mission, and you fit the definition to a "t". Care to spill the secret?"

"It's kind of hard to explain…" The hunter said, taking a sip of his drink, which turned out to be fantastic.

"Try me."

"Well," Sam spluttered, looking for a viable excuse, "I don't really _know _you…"

"Are you seriously giving me the "stranger danger" speech?"

Sam simply shrugged, looking away.

"What are you, four? I'm not going to bite. Without consent, anyways."

"Kinky much?" Sam said before he could stop himself.

Gabe laughed loudly.

Smiling, the hunter snuck a bite of his salad. So far the diner had been surpassing its expectations. He was pleasantly astounded.

"You know, I get off at four; if you want someone to talk to, look me up." Taking out his pen from his apron pocket, he jotted down a series of numbers and words on a napkin, sliding it to the Winchester. With a final shake of his eyebrows, he turned and walked away.

Sam looked at the napkin, wondering if it was actually real. Resisting the urge to poke it with the butt of his fork, he instead settled for reading the information on it.

_346 Billings Street_

Sam finished his salad and coffee and left the diner soon after, taking the napkin with him.

It was four fourteen, and the hunter was outside of a quaint little house on a nondescript road just on the edge of the small town. He really shouldn't have been there at all, the longer he put off going to the factory, the colder his father's trail got. At first, Sam was not going to come at all. He had even thrown away the little napkin, only to fish it out again two minutes later. Biting the inside of his lip, he slammed the door to the Impala, the car shifting to the right a little bit in protest.

He shouldn't be here.

He needed to find John.

But, on the other hand, Gabe was the first person who actually genuinely seemed to care about his problems, even with the little information he had given the guy. Sam couldn't exactly just ignore that.

So, here he was.

The hunter glanced at the car. Nothing was keeping him here; he could still leave if he wanted to. The machine sat on the side of the street, looking innocent enough. It was still after so long of running down back roads and through woods, taking the Winchester where he needed to go; travelling from one job to the next. Sam found its stillness eerie.

Letting out a small breath, he crossed the street and approached 346 Billings street.

The door was an obnoxious yellow, but Sam thought that suited Gabe; a cheery door for a cheery person. The problem was that Sam just couldn't seem to bring himself to knock on the door. He was so absorbed in his own little world that he completely missed the figure standing in the window.

Eventually, after two minutes of internal war, he turned and headed back to the Impala. He needed to find John, after all.

Inside the house, Gabe punched a wall. That Winchester had been much harder to find than he had originally thought. He and that damn father of his always had a knack for avoiding people. It was like enticing a wounded animal into his house with sugar cubes, he had to do this right, or Sam would run away. Since he had had Sam in his clutches, he thought that _maybe _this whole mess was going to blow over. Now he was back to square one, and this time, he was angry. But, it wasn't Sam, or even John that pissed him off. No, it was that older _brother_ of his. Dean had to just go and fuck everything up. The worst part was that Dean didn't even know what he _did_. Gabriel knew he _still_ didn't. The destiny of the Earth had been thrown out of whack with one stupid, teenager's mistake. The older Winchester brother chose his own happiness over the safety of his little brother.

Sure, Gabriel hadn't really minded all that much at first. He hadn't seen the effects of Dean's decision first hand. He had believed that for ten years, Sam was still the annoying little boy that had travelled the country under Dean's figurative wing. If anything annoyed the Archangel, it was when people fucked up other people's lives. Dean threw Sam to the dogs, and John did the rest.

John took the sweet, innocent, little twelve-year-old Sam and turned him into a weapon, and _that_ pissed the trickster off.

Then, there were the little fact that the apocalypse was momentarily thrown off, but it's not like _he _of all people cared about that.

…

Outside, Sam revved up the Impala and coasted off down the road, going southwards once again. For some reason, his insides were crawling with guilt. Maybe he should have knocked on the door.

_I'm being an idiot, it's not that big of a deal, _he thought to himself wryly. _I'm sure he didn't even really care._

Suddenly, Sam's phone rang. It was all he could do not to let the car come to a squealing stop. Quickly pulled over, he fumbled through his pocket to pull out his cell phone. Just as fast he flipped it open, and brought it up to his ear.

"Hello?"

"_Sam, hey it's Haley_."

"Oh," he deflated, but rebounded. "Hey Haley," he replied cheerily. "Is everything okay?"

"_Yeah, no it's perfect_!"

"And why is that?"

"_A man found my brother!"_

"A man?" asked Sam, suspicious.

"_Yeah, that's actually why I'm calling. He's still here and he wanted to talk to you_."

"Who is it?"

"_He wouldn't tell us his name, but he said he's a friend of yours_."

Heart pumping, he told Haley to put the man on the phone. With a quiet "hold on" and the sound of fabric rustling, Haley handed her phone to the stranger.

"_Sam?_"

"Dad?"

"_I'm glad you're there_," John started, all business. For some reason, he sounded off. "_We need to talk. You can't come looking for me._"

"What? Why? What's going on? Why did you leave?"

"_I'm tracking the thing that killed your mother, Sam_."

The younger hunter was silent. John sighed and continued his story.

"_I had to leave because I don't want you getting hurt_."

"I'm a good hunter," Sam croaked. There was no way the Winchester would let another member of his family leave without having a say in it first. "You said it yourself; I'm almost as good as you are."

"_Almost doesn't cut it_. _Don't look for me, Sam. Keep hunting. You'll do fine without me. Have you made it to the coordinates yet?_"

"I was on my way just when you called."

"_Good_."

"Did you _want_ to leave?" he asked in a small voice.

John was quiet for a moment. "_Sam_-"

"Is it because of Dean?" the younger hunter demanded.

"_Don't you speak to me about_-"

"I can be a better son," Sam said, "I can be a better hunter than I was a brother."

"_I have to go. Good luck._"

The line went dead, and the Winchester's heart clenched. With an angry snort, Sam took all the emotions that he wore on his arm like a sleeve, and shoved them somewhere in the recesses of his mind. Then, he hit the gas pedal and rocketed down the road like a black bullet.

He would show John that he was a good hunter. He would prove that he was a _better _hunter than John _ever _was. He'll show him.

Sam ended up nearly halving the time it took to get to the abandoned shoe factory, though it was already seven at night when he finally did show up; and he hadn't slept since the night before yesterday. Sam weighed the pros and cons of blazing into the factory right now, but eventually, the reasonable part of his mind told the other half to shut the fuck up. He may be suicidal, but he wasn't suicidal enough to charge into some monster's lair without sleep and research.

Finding the motel that he and John stayed at when they were last there, Sam checked in. Receiving his key, he stumbled in through the door, vaguely registering that it was even the same _room _that he had rented the previous time, and passed out on the rickety bed.

The next thing the Winchester registered was someone knocking on his motel door. Groggily, he pushed himself to his feet and rubbed one eye, the other hand pushing his bangs out of his face. Quickly, he pulled on a new shirt and answered the door.

"Hello, Agent Barton?"

"Hmm? Oh, yeah. Hi. Sorry, I just woke up. These have been a long few days for me."

"I can see that. I'm Mayor Winchel, in case you've forgotten," the woman smiled at him. She was a foot shorter than he was, with long brown hair and an "in charge" aura about her. He offered her a thankful smile in return.

"Anything I can do for you?" Sam asked, suppressing a yawn.

"Oh, actually no. Small town, news travels fast. I heard that you were back in town and I was wondering if there was a problem…"

"Nothing yet. I got a tip that there may be an issue. Has anything strange happened lately?"

The mayor frowned. "Nope, sorry… Nothing comes to mind. Listen, if you need anything, don't hesitate to give me a call."

"I will thank you."

With that, the woman turned and rounded the corner of the building. Sam sighed, closing the door behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3: Damn Demons

…

The town's newspaper didn't hold anything interesting. No murders, disappearances… nothing unusual at all. So why would John send him here? Typically the two of them stayed away from places they had been before, so obviously it was important.

The last case in this town had been a particularly malicious spirit going by the name Luke Lauson. The Winchester son and father quickly found out that Luke had strangled his wife and two sons in their sleep over a petty argument the night before. He had a long history of being abusive, so the pair of hunters had taken a particular liking to burning his bones.

That was, until they found out that old Luke wasn't hanging onto his bones. It was something else.

Slipping his old watch into Sam's pocket, he followed the hunter's back to the motel and waited until they fell asleep. Then, the spirit attacked, throwing John and Sam against a wall and holding them there with Sam's bed that he had then thrown against them. It was only luck that the younger hunter had a bad feeling about tonight and had put a sawed-off rifle, loaded with rock salt, under his pillow.

Quickly nailing Luke with the salt, the spirit had vanished. John knew immediately what was going on and ordered Sam to check all his pockets while he checked his own. The younger Winchester found the watch, and John had burned it while his son kept watch for the spirit's return.

They left town quickly afterwards, leaving all the town's residents wondering what the heck happened.

Deciding that he wasn't going to get anywhere with looking through the town's newspapers, he opted instead to ask around the local businesses. If he remembered correctly, the closest bar to the motel was a dingy little joint just down the road. Instead of taking the Impala, Sam began to walk towards the club.

The inside wasn't crowded, just a few regulars mingling with their usual crowd. As soon as the Winchester walked in, the building went silent.

"Hey there, haven't seen you around. Lost?" The bartender asked after a few awkward moments. When he spoke up the chatter began anew.

"Uh, no," Sam said, sitting down at the bar.

"It's just; we don't get any visitors during this time of day. If we get any newbies, it's around midnight," the bartender explained.

"I see."

"Want to order anything?"

"Just a beer would be nice."

The bartender nodded and headed towards the opposite side of the bar, rummaging through shelves of alcoholic beverages.

Suddenly, a man sat down next to him. "Hello. Haven't seen you around."

"New in town," Sam offered off-handedly. "I'll be moving on soon."

"You're not here for that damn factory outside of town are you?"

"Factory? Why, anything weird about it?"

The man chuckled. "Weird? Yeah, that place is real weird."

"How so?"

The man laughed again. "It's literally our only tourist attraction. They say the place is haunted, people who go in there don't come out the same."

"What do you mean?"

The man gave him a look. "You're not going to go snooping around that trash heap, are you?"

"No, no of course not. I'm just curious. It's not every day you come across a haunted factory."

He shrugged, "Well, you're asking for it. There is a little shop two streets over that sells a bunch of hoodoo shit. Nobody really takes it seriously, but it gives me the creeps. S'called Stella Matu Gifts. The owner there knows a lot about that place."

"Thanks…"

"Lance."

"Thanks Lance. I'm Sam, by the way."

"No problem, Sam," Lance said, getting up and returning to wherever he had come from.

The bartender returned. "Wow, Lance was talking to you? He's not really one of the social sort."

Sam frowned. "Does he come here a lot?"

"Yeah, he comes almost every day. Not that he ever talks to anybody. Usually he just orders something and goes to sit in the corner for a half an hour."

"Hmm," Sam grunted, taking a sip of his beer.

"He makes me uncomfortable, honestly. I'd kick him out but I don't think the police would take kindly to me throwing out a man on the grounds of "making my hair stand on end"."

"Does he live in town?"

"I don't think so, he always leaves after dark. I think he heads towards Alexander a few miles back up Chester Street, but it's hard to be sure."

"That's odd. What does he do in town all day?"

"Dunno. Pretty much vanishes. Oops, my shift is over. Have a good time in town."

"Thanks, I'll try," Sam said, and then the Bartender disappeared behind a door, probably to wait for the next employee to take over.

Sam downed the rest of his drink and exited the bar, heading for the shop that Lance had mentioned. Luckily it was a short, uneventful walk, and the hunter found himself standing outside of a dark, little shop labeled Stella Matu Gifts. It looked like it was a store straight out of Harry Potter's Nocturn Alley. The one window was boarded over, and the sign above the door was hanging by one hinge. The walls were a sickly green color, and the door was a darker shade of the former.

Sam couldn't honestly say that he wasn't nervous, but he went in anyways.

The air conditioning blasted him as he stepping into the dimly lit room. The smell hit him like a baseball bat to the face; the scent of rotting eggs was poorly masked by about sixty candles throughout the room.

"Can I help you?"

A woman in her late twenties was at the counter. She was wearing a grey tank top showing off her tattoos, which seemed to consist of mostly… suns with pentagrams in the middle? He was starting to think he shouldn't have come at all.

"Uh, hello," Sam began awkwardly, "I was told that you know a lot about the old shoe factory outside of town?"

"Oh, that." The girl said, waving a hand in its general vicinity.

"Yeah, do you?"

"I do."

"I was wondering if you could tell me anything you can about that place."

"Look, maybe I'm not the right person to be talking-"

"A man named Lance sent me, does that name mean anything to you?"

"Lance? He stops by here sometimes. You're real special if he talked to you."

"So I've been told."

The girl paused, examining Sam. "You're sure you want me to tell you about this? Most people think I'm crazy. Hell, maybe I am."

"Trust me, I know crazy," Sam chuckled.

The girl frowned at the Winchester, considering him. Seemingly happy with what she found, she pointed towards an old chair by the wall. "You might want to sit down."

"I'm fine standing."

"Suit yourself. I'm Delphine by the way. Who are you?"

"Sam Barton."

"Barton… doesn't suit you. Hey, there were some FBI agents in town a few years back… I think one of them went by the name Barton. Is that you?"

Sam winced. "Uh… yeah. But I swear I'm not here on duty."

Delphine seemed to have accepted his statement. "If you say so. Anyways… the factory. It was pretty normal for a while… I mean, as normal as something like that can get. But then, a few months ago the people who went in there came out entirely different. Not how they acted, mind you, but they just seemed so… _robotic._ Like they were actors playing a part; and not very good actors at that. So, I looked into it. I'd heard stuff from people passing through about… possession."

"Possession?" Sam asked, becoming more interested.

"I know, you probably think I'm crazy-"

"I don't think you're crazy."

She looked surprised. "You don't? That's a first."

"Like I said, I know crazy; and nothing you've told me so far even comes close to what I've seen."

"Wow, insane life your living."

Sam smiled ruefully, "Yep. Though, I'd like to hear the rest."

"Oh, right. Sorry. So… possession. I did some digging, and ever since that incident with the psychopath who killed all those people…well, it wasn't a psychopath, was it?"

"You mean, when my partner and I were here?"

"Yeah."

Sam bit the inside of his mouth, and then shook his head no.

"I figured. If my facts are straight, that bed was bolted to the floor; I doubt anyone could have moved it."

The Winchester shook his head no again.

"What was it then? I have my theories, but I want to know what really happened."

Sam sighed, weighing the pros and cons of telling the girl. Deciding to spill the beans, he began with the basics. "It was a vengeful spirit. He was called Luke Lauson. Twenty or so years ago, Luke strangled his wife and kids while they slept, then he killed himself. Bad people like him get left behind in this life, so to speak, and then they go mad. You can only get rid of them by either salting and burning their bones, or sometimes they hang on to a favorite possession of theirs. You salt and burn that too. That usually gets rid of the problem."

Delphine was wide-eyed. "I thought, maybe, just a ghost… but never to that extent," she said quietly.

"I'm sorry," the hunter said awkwardly. That seemed to have snapped the girl out of her stupor.

"Yeah, boo-hoo. Back to the story. I'd heard about ghosts possessing people, but it just didn't fit the criteria for what's happening here. So I dug deeper. I found some information on demons; like, from the Bible and whatnot."

"Demons?" The Winchester said, surprised.

"Demons. They take over a human that isn't protected by charms or tattoos like these," Delphine motioned to the little black suns dotting her arms, "and ride them around like a car. They leave behind a sulfuric smell, and they can be exorcized by a choice selection of Latin incantations."

"You seem to know a lot about this."

"Well, I'm nothing if not thorough."

"What incantations?"

"I have a book of them, but it costs twenty bucks. They're over there in the bookshelf. I also do these tattoos if you care."

"Thanks, I might actually do just that," Sam said, walking over to pick out the book she had mentioned. He returned to the counter, and she rung him up.

"Actually, I'll do the pentagram for free, since you heard me out and don't think I'm crazy."

The hunter gave her a genuine smile. Then it struck him. "Why does it smell like eggs in here?"

"I don't know," she admitted, handing him the book with the receipt. "It started stinking about a month ago, and I've called every specialist from here to high Heaven. Nobody can find anything."

"I can take a look around some time, if I get the chance."

"Would you? Thank you! I wouldn't want any demons roaming around my store without my say so. Now; to tattoo, or not to tattoo?"

"I'll do it."

Delphine clapped her hands together excitedly. "Fantastic. Come and sit down in this room over here while I get ready. I swear this seat isn't as gross as that one." She bounced away to gather her supplies from one of the dusty cabinets somewhere nearby. It left the man some time alone to reflect on her store. Now that he was actually _looking_, it was reasonably well-maintained. Every area possible to reach was spotless, but there was so much merchandise that there really wasn't a lot she could actually _clean_. The Winchester shook his head slightly in acceptance, and then sat himself down on the much tidier chair than the one in the main room.

The girl came back in, laden with the tattooing supplies. Brandishing the needle, she smiled at him. "Have you gotten a tattoo before?"

"No."

"It'll hurt," Delphine warned.

"Don't worry. I have a high pain tolerance."

"I see. Where do you want it, and how big do you want it?"

Sam took off his shirt, explaining that he wanted it above his heart. Delphine didn't seem fazed by his naked torso, for which he was grateful. He then explained that he wanted it to be about the size of the bottom of a water bottle. The girl shook her head in understanding, and then went to work.

"Why are you working here?" Sam asked about a quarter of the way through.

"It was my mom's shop. She was a real nut, lemme tell you."

Sam nodded, and fell silent in thought.

About half way through, the Winchester asked another question. "What does stella matu mean?"

"Like I said, my mom was a nut," Delphine said. Sam left it at that.

A long while later, Delphine finished. Sam's skin stung fiercely, but it wasn't anything he couldn't handle.

"Are you sure you don't want me to pay? Those things usually cost a lot of money."

"It's fine, trust me. I've got more money than I need. Here is the lotion you'll need. Put it on that for a few days and it should stick around. No charge."

"Thanks Delphine. Call me if you need anything, here is my number," Sam said, writing down his personal cell phone number on a scrap of paper that she handed to him without further delay. Waving goodbye, he exited the store and headed back to the motel.

After applying liberal amounts of the lotion to his chest, he pulled his laptop out of his duffle bag and booted it up. Sam threw his jacket and shirt into a plastic bag to be washed later at a Laundromat, because they smelled strongly of sulfur, and frankly; it make the Winchester sick to his stomach. He tied the bag up with the handles and shoved it into the bottom of the bad, piling other clothes on top of it. _That should do for now, _Sam thought vaguely.

Opening the search engine, the hunter searched the internet about demons. The usual sites came up; Wikipedia, a few churches claiming that they could save his soul, and a seemingly unlimited number of crappy angst-y teen-created websites with black color schemes.

Running a hand over his face, he continued on through pages and pages of supposed demon lore. Nothing was conclusive, and most of it was completely made up. Sam was even debating just buying a Bible after the fourth hour had passed with no results. All he had found as of yet was the superstition that demons have black eyes, could possess any human who wasn't warded against them, and they were all at one point, humans.

Flipping the knife open and shut in his hand absently, he closed the laptop and decided to go and get something to eat. There was a family-run restaurant next door that he had been intending to try the last time Sam had been in town, which, for obvious reasons, never ended up happening.

He was just starting to walk down the sidewalk when someone tapped him on the shoulder. He spun around, finding Lance staring up at him.

"Hey, Sam. I didn't know you were still in town."

"Oh, yeah. I don't plan on staying too much longer. Is there something you need?"

"Actually, yeah. You seem like a strong guy, right? Well, there are some boxes in my truck that I can't lift myself. Can you help? It's just behind that building over there."

The Winchester considered Lance. Maybe _he _was the thing John sent him here to kill. If so, and Lance was some sort of supernatural being, he had no idea what would kill the man. The entire defense he had on him was his knife. In addition to the former, he had no idea what Lance wanted; maybe to kill the hunter, but maybe he wanted something else?

Discreetly sticking his fist into his pocket and gripping the weapon, he gave an agreeing grunt, motioning to the other man to lead the way. Lance grinned at Sam, before turning and heading towards the location he had mentioned just a little earlier. The Winchester sauntered behind him, glancing over his shoulder to make sure they weren't being followed. He didn't see anything, but that didn't mean there wasn't anyone there.

The truck was black, a Chevy, probably from the eighties. So far the taller man couldn't see any boxes, which only made his hand clench his knife harder.

"Sam," Lance said, turning to face him.

"I don't see any boxes," he replied tonelessly.

"That's because there aren't any. I needed to talk to you, alone. They're watching my every move."

"What do you mean?"

"Did Delphine tell you everything?"

Sam cautiously shook his head yes.

"I know you're a hunter, I've worked a few cases with John a few years back."

"You know John?"

Lance smiled lightly. "He's a great hunter. You couldn't have been in more capable hands."

"Were you going to tell me something?" Sam asked irritably.

"Sorry, I'll be quick. I think you should leave town, leave the factory alone."

"What?" Sam spluttered, "Why?"

"Demons aren't something you want to get involved with if you can avoid it. Mess with one of them; others will follow, wanting to test you."

"Why are you still here then?"

"Because I know how to deal with them. You on the other hand, you just learned they existed today. In fact, I'll bet you're still skeptical."

"John sent me here to take care of it. If he thinks I can do it, then I can do it."

"John sent you? Where is he?"

"It doesn't matter. Tell me how to fight them, and I'll leave as soon as I came."

"I'm not worried about that-"

"Then why are you telling me this?"

"I don't want you to get hurt Sam," Lance sighed.

"When was the last time you saw me?"

"Maybe fifteen years ago… Why?"

"Because I can do _more_ than I could _fifteen_ _years_ ago. Tell me how to kill the demons, and we both walk away from here happy."

"I don't have to tell you anything."

Sam laughed monotonously. "Yes, you do."

Suddenly, the Winchester pushed the other man up against the black truck violently. Placing his weight against Lance to keep him in place, he pulled the weapon out of his jeans and pressed it against the hunter's throat. Lance swallowed painfully, gritting his teeth and swearing softly.

"Tell. Me. What. To. Do."

"Sam-"

"Did I stutter?" Sam snarled, "You've got two minutes to spill everything you know, starting now."

The shorter hunter glared at the Winchester. "You've gotten scary, boy. What happened to you?"

"Like I said, it doesn't matter."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4: Last Ticket to Freedom

…

Lance was forthcoming with the information on demons, and Sam let the hunter go with a quiet "if you were lying about _anything_, I will find you," and the man scuttled off in his black truck, the engine rumbling as the vehicle veered out of the parking lot. The Winchester tucked his knife back into his pocket and went back to his motel, appetite ruined. As soon as he returned, he switched on his computer and typed all the new information down on a text document before he forgot it again; and then, he made everything Lance told him he'd need. By that time it was already late.

Quickly taking another shower and applying more of the lotion, the Winchester dawned on a grey T-shirt and boxers, before clambering into the rickety bed. It shifted and groaned under his weight, but soon settled into a more comfortable position.

"Goodnight Da-" he began to say, then stopped himself. Biting the inside of his lip, he turned on one side with the feeling like he had been holding his breath underwater and had just run out of air. Smothering his face into the pillow, the hunter exhaled sharply, and closed his eyes.

Sam woke up around seven-thirty the next morning. Groaning as his stiff muscles protested, he sat up, rubbing his eyes. Weak sunlight filtered in through the thin off-white curtains drawn over a slightly cracked window. From somewhere across the room, his laptop hummed like a napping cat; he must have left it on from the night before.

Sighing, the hunter rose to his feet. He crossed the floor and opened the computer, intending to turn it off when he noticed an email. Enlarging the icon, he found it to be from Stanford College. He had almost forgotten about that…

A couple months ago, when John was off, or somewhere else, Sam had been applying to colleges. Well, to be more accurate, _a_ college. He had always wanted to go to Stanford to become a lawyer.

Figuring it was a rejection email, the Winchester skimmed through the document. It took him about halfway through to realize it was an _acceptance letter_! Stanford had accepted him, _and_ had given him a _full ride_!

The hunter stood there for a minute, gawking at his luck. Then it dawned on him. He didn't have to hunt anymore. There was his ticket out, _right there_; quite literally, _one click away_. There was nothing stopping him.

Except.

John had sent him on a mission, and Sam knew his father didn't make him do anything without a purpose. Usually it ended up saving a lot of lives in the process.

In addition, Sam had yet to find John. Even though his father told him not to look for him, Sam will be damned if he doesn't at least _try_. There was little chance he could actually pull off the feat, especially when his dad didn't _want_ to be found, but the hunter had gotten much better at tracking over the years and he felt somewhat confident in his abilities.

Gritting his teeth and staring at the screen, he let his internal war rage on. John didn't make him do anything, and more than anything Sam wanted to prove he was his own person. If he wanted to go to college, there wasn't a damn thing on Earth that could stop him. But, the hunter was painfully aware of just how many lives rode on him when he hunted. If he went to school, there would probably be some sort of monster out there in the dark, which would prey on innocent people. A monster that _he _could have stopped if he hadn't have been so damn selfish.

Feeling sick to his stomach, he exited out of the email and dragged it into his trash. Doing all he could not to slam the lid shut, he pulled on some fresh clothes, and stalked out the door.

Outside the motel, the air was cold and smelled of spilled gasoline. The sky above him was overhanging with dull, grey, lifeless clouds that never seemed to end. They stretched from horizon to horizon, mostly obscuring the sun. The hunter pulled the Impala's keys out of his jeans and unlocked the doors, starting the engine. It hummed to life with a hoarse splutter and Sam dragged himself inside. _Today is the day_, he thought. Today is the day that he stormed the castle.

The factory was only a few minutes out of town. The Impala rode down the main street in town, chugging her way towards city limits. Quickly the scenery changed from old, but well-kept buildings to dusty, dead and deserted. The land was mostly flat, except for a few large beige rocks and boulders strewn about the plains haphazardly.

Soon, a large grey building loomed on the left side of the road. With a grin as warm as Alaska, he turned into the dilapidated parking lot and parked as far away from the factory as he physically could. Getting out and slamming the door behind him, he walked around to the trunk and pulled it open, exposing an arsenal of weapons.

The Winchester remembered everything Lance said to bring. He had made holy water run yesterday night after the encounter with the other man, he and John kept around a crap ton of salt for obvious reasons, and the hunter had grabbed a few iron knives just to be safe. After a thought, Sam returned to the front seat of the car and grabbed the book of exorcisms he had purchased from Delphine the day before. Shoving everything he just grabbed into a small backpack plus a few other odds and ends, he zipped the pack up.

Feeling confident, the Winchester began to make his way towards the towering steel doors that led to the interior of the building. The inside if the building was cool and dark, but it was warmer than outside. Sam's hand found its way to his knife in his pocket. Something didn't seem right here.

Keeping both eyes open, the hunter trudged on. The air was thick with dust, and the small amounts of sunlight streamed through the broken roof. It was hardly enough to see by, let alone search. He pulled a small flashlight and flicked it on. A bright white light shot out from the tip, and Sam began to shine it anywhere he could see. Mountains of plastic-covered machinery dominated the space. The ceiling was at least twenty feet above him. The place smelled vaguely of tar.

_Crash!_

The hunter whirled around to face to noise, the flashlight beam just a split second behind him. It took the Winchester a few seconds for his eyes to adjust, but when they did, he found a small shape running towards him at breakneck speed.

"Meow!"

The cat's head butted up against his leg. The small animal began to purr, rubbing its lithe body against the fabric of his jeans. "Meow!"

"Hey there, what are you doing here?" Sam smiled, lifting the scrawny creature and holding it up to his face. It meowed again, trying to paw at his nose. "Aren't you a friendly cat?"

Suddenly, the animal tensed, its whole body going rigid. Hissing, the cat furiously struggled to get out of the Winchester's grasp. Setting it down, the feline sprinted off in the direction it had come from, tail bobbing as it ran. Sam on the other hand, spun around to face what it had been looking at. Right behind the hunter stood a man, who smiled pleasantly at him. He was slightly shorter than Sam, and had sandy-grey hair.

"Wow, I'd have to say, you were the last person I had expected to see here, Sam," the stranger exclaimed in mock surprise.

"Who are you?" the hunter asked shortly.

"Me? I have a few names."

"Are you a demon?" he demanded.

"Now, let's not revert to name calling." He took a step forward.

"Stay back!" Sam threatened, pulling an iron knife out of his back pocket.

The man looked at the Winchester like he was three and had just shown him one of his drawings he made in art class. "That stick isn't going to do anything to me, so let's just put it away before someone gets hurt."

"I'll put it away when you tell me who you are," Sam said confidently.

The man sighed, flicking two fingers in his general vicinity. The hunter was surprised when his whole body flew backwards and he landed upright with a painful _thud_ against a lumpy pile of machinery. No matter what he did, he couldn't move a muscle.

"I just wanted to have an adult little talk, and then you had to go and start making threats," he sighed, walking up to the bound Winchester. The man kicked away the dropped iron knife.

"How do you know my name?" Sam puffed, trying to stall his possibly inevitable death so he could look for an out.

"You're real special, that's why. You could even say I'm why you're here. Besides, who doesn't know the great Sam Winchester and his big brother?"

"My brother?"

"Dean Winchester, yes; and they said you were _smart_. Where is he?"

"Not here. What's he got to do with any of this?"

The man ignored him. "That's not what I asked," he smiled, twisting his had in mid-air like he was screwing in a light bulb. The Winchester's body erupted into searing hot pain, comparable to being processed through a wood chipper. He clenched his teeth in order not to cry out, but instead, he caught a little bit of the inside of his lip; drawing blood.

The man stopped moving his hand, and the hunter let out a sigh of relief as the pain dissipated. As he did so, a drop of blood flung off of his lip and landed on the floor. The stranger noticed it, and frowned faintly, like he was disappointed. "Sammy, I don't _want_ to hurt you. You're just making this so damn difficult on yourself," he paused, "But… I guess it doesn't make a difference where Dean is. We need to have a talk."

"I'm not telling you anything, so you can go and stick your head up my ass," Sam snarled.

"Oh, no. I know everything you could possibly tell me. I just need you to listen, and then maybe do me a favor."

"Who the _Hell_ do you think you are?"

"Hell… yes. You asked my name, and since I know yours, it's only fair I tell you mine. My name is Azazel. I'm a demon," he said with a smile. Azazel stuck his hand out for Sam to shake, but then smirked wider when Sam just glared at him, still unable to move. He retracted his hand again.

"Of course, it's just pure luck that I'm the first demon you officially meet. I just happened to be walking through this part of the factory when I noticed you sneaking around. You're quite lucky, really. Not many people even get to _speak_ with me before they're dead."

Sam struggled a little harder.

"I suppose that's enough of the small talk. Let's get down to the really important topics. First off, I think we'll start with you."

"Shut the fuck up," the Winchester roared.

"Temper," Azazel chastised. "Like I said, you're special. In fact, I consider you my actual child; you're my blood, after all. Not that kind of blood," the demon exhaled, noticing the hunter's death-glare. "_My_ blood."

"You demons and you god-awful kinks," Someone snorted from in the dark to Sam's left.

"Who are you?" Azazel said, looking towards the source of the voice, tensing visibly.

"Does it matter? You'll be dead in a few seconds anyways.

Suddenly, the demon's eyes grew wide, and he took a step back. "You're-"

"Dead? _Obviously_ not."

"There are more demons here, you can't fight them all."

"Actually," the man in the shadows snorted, "I already did. This whole place is empty except for you, me and that poor moose you tied to a shoelace machine. I'll give you to the count of three to get as far away from here as you can."

Azazel turned to Sam. "It looks like we're going to have to pick this up later."

"One."

"And you," the demon said, turning towards the dark, "We'll be looking for you."

"_Two_."

Azazel disappeared, and the force holding the Winchester going with him. The hunter slumped to the floor almost immediately. He spend a few second on the dusty floor just _breathing_. That had been too close for comfort.

"You okay Samsquatch?"

He had almost forgotten about the man, still hidden in the shadows.

"Who are you?"

The man chuckled, and Sam could barely make out his white teeth. "Does it matter?"

"Yes," the Winchester stressed, turning his body –which was still on the floor- towards his rescuer. "You saved my life. I don't just _forget_ about stuff like that, especially six seconds later."

"Hmm, I can see," the man hummed. "Well, I'm glad you're okay. Though, I need to go. Think you can manage from here?"

That voice… Sam could have sworn that he knew it from somewhere. Brushing off the notion, Sam nodded his head slightly in assurance of the last question.

"Good. I'll be going then," he said, and, before the hunter could get another word in edgewise; his rescuer disappeared with an audible snap, leaving the Winchester dumbfounded.

Groaning, he stumbled to his feet and picked up the items he had dropped not too long ago. What just happened? Even though he had just met the demon, he was pretty sure –going by the way he acted- Azazel was one of the more powerful demons in existence. With the hunter's luck, they would meet again.

But then, there was that man. Was he a demon too? If he was, then he was much more powerful than Azazel; and that couldn't be good news. But he hadn't hurt Sam, just saved him from the demon, and then disappeared soon after. Desperately, he wanted to know their motives. What was their end game?

Running a hand over his face, he headed out of the factory and into the daylight. The sun had finally peeked through the overhanging clouds. He could hear birds out in the deserted scrublands. Wearily, the hunter unlocked the Impala and tossed the dirty backpack carelessly onto the passenger's seat. Starting the car, he shut the door behind him and took off down the road, back towards town.

The ride back to the motel seemed to take much less time than it had leaving. Soon, he was unlocking the door to his room and stepping inside, dragging his backpack behind him.

The room was just as he had left it. The laptop was still on, humming softly as it blew hot air out from the vents on its side. Frowning, Sam slunk inside, shitting the wooden door behind him and dropping his equipment near the wall. Crossing the room, the Winchester shut the computer and then headed for the bathroom, intending to take a _very _long shower.

Doing his best to clear his mind, Sam cleaned himself off as best as he could without stirring his sore muscles too much, before getting out and plopping himself down on the shitty motel bed. It creaked under his weight before settling down again. Glancing at the clock, he saw that it was only six o'clock. Sighing, Sam flopped backwards, the bed protesting again from under him.

Staring at the off-white ceiling, the Winchester thought. Why exactly had his father sent him here? There wasn't anything to gain; except maybe a few more enemies. Was it some kind of a test? He bit the inside of his cheek. Why exactly had Azazel asked about his brother? Didn't he know that Dean and Sam hadn't seen each other in a long time? There were too many questions and not enough answers.

Groaning in despair, Sam turned and smothered his head into his pillow. If only John could see him now.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5: See You On the Road

…

The months rolled on as Sam travelled. November bled life into December; December died and the late January of 2006 arrived without too much fanfare. Everything went on as it should have, with Sam attempting to track his father down, some fruitful hunts, and a few nightmares thrown in here and there. Each month that passed, he was farther and farther from finding John. There were a couple times that the hunter had come close to giving up. But what is a Winchester without a purpose? So he kept looking.

Sam was in Montana. The snow was coming down too fast – everything was white. There was so much snow it was almost idiotic. There were reports coming in almost every five minutes, another crash, and another fatality. Sam eventually had had enough and simply switched off his police radio. Instead he switched on the shitty tube television in his current motel. Apparently, yet another storm was supposed to hit the area within the day. The hunter figured he should probably move on before the area was frozen solid and he would have to wait for everything to thaw again before he moved on.

In all actuality, it may have been a good idea to wait a day or two for the storm to pass that he was currently in; but the hunter had been feeling reckless. He had lived to regret it, of course, because here he was; stranded out somewhere along the back roads of Montana, trying to pry the Impala out of a particularly deep patch of snow and ice. There had been an old crowbar underneath the front seat of the car, which he was now using to levitate the tires off the ground.

The radio faded in and out from the background; going from static to some odd country song that he had never heard before. It was coupled by the wind that howled down from the mountains, making the hunter wish that he was wearing more than just a utility jacket and a pair of threadbare brown leather gloves.

The Winchester grunted in exertion, trying his hardest to release the Impala from the pile of snow. He pushed the hunk of metal forward as far as he could, then stopping when it was caught again, just to shove the metal rod under the tires again and repeat the process over again.

"Need a little help?" A feminine voice asked from behind him.

Sam jumped violently, spinning around and unconsciously reaching for the switch knife at his waist. A short girl with short, near-white hair sat in a white pick-up truck, wrapped in a puffy grey coat. She considered Sam with a smile that seemed… too _sharp_. His brushed off his feelings of uneasiness.

The hunter let out a breath and tried to return her smile, to which he was only moderately successful. "Yeah. That'd be great."

The girl parked her truck where it was, then slipped out to confront him. "Want me to give it some gas?" She asked, motioning towards the driver's seat with her thumb. The Winchester nodded.

"Cool," the girl mused, swinging open the door to the Impala and setting herself gracefully onto the leather seat. She turned the keys that Sam had left in the dashboard, letting the car roar to life. Soon the wheels were spinning madly and the hunter was shoving the trunk with all his might. She slid forward with a lurch, finally free of the deep ice and snow that it had been stuck in for all too long.

"Is it out?" The girl called, sticking her head out the open window.

"Yeah, it is. Thanks for doing this for me, even though I don't know you."

She smirked, "No problem. What's your name?"

"Sam."

"That's a nice name, Sam. I'm Meg. Meg Masterson" Meg stepped out of his car to confront the taller man, sticking out a gloved hand. He took it and shook, smiling warmly at her.

"Would you mind if I tailed you into town?" She asked, staring at Sam so hard he almost found it unnerving. "I don't want to get caught in a bank myself."

"Sure, sure. Sounds fine to me."

"Great," Meg said, already turning to climb back into her white truck. The Winchester, in turn, sighed softly before heading back to the wheel. Soon the duo was cruising down the snow-slicked roads and towards the nearest city. Eventually, the storm began to let up. By the time the hunter pulled into Alexander Plateau, the sleet had been reduced to mere glitter; which shined in the yellow light of the dark buildings around them. Sam pulled into the parking lot of a shabby motel, and then turned around to spot Meg, still driving behind him. She pulled her truck up next to the Impala and parked it. It let out one final, shuddering gasp of fumes before shutting off completely.

Not knowing what exactly to expect, Sam climbed out of the Impala slowly, shouldering his black backpack and duffle bag with care. Out of the side of his eye, he noticed Meg pulling out a duffle bag of her own. Sam reached up to scratch the back of his neck before slamming the door closed and locking it.

Meg Masterson gave the Winchester a faint smile. "Well, I suppose this is it then," she told him.

Sam frowned, confused. "Aren't you going to spend the night in there?" He asked, jabbing a thumb towards the dilapidated building to his right.

"No. I need to pick up a few things around town. There aren't many places to park."

"I see."

A smirk crossed the girl's face. "Don't cry. It's not the end of the world…"

She trailed off. The hunter gave her a quizzical look but she only shrugged. "It was a joke. Anyways, I probably won't be seeing you," and, with that; she walked off into the gloom of the road.

Feeling infinitely uncomfortable, the Winchester made his way inside the motel. The lighting was substandard at best; every couple of seconds, the dusty fixtures would flicker audibly, before returning to their former positions. After passing a gangly teenager running the desk and receiving his key, Sam headed into the murky hallways.

Nearly choking on the mothball scent of the carpet, the Winchester bolted into his room. Slamming the door behind him, he took a deep breath of the musky air; relishing the mothball free smell. The room itself was worn, but well enough kept to make Sam feel more comfortable. Setting down the backpack and grey duffle on the floor, Sam pulled out his laptop. Plugging the cord into the yellow outlet on the wall, the hunter plopped himself down on the threadbare bed, making the springs squeal in protest. Opening the lid, he booted it up.

A few minutes later, after the machine had warmed up and was fully functioning, Sam clicked on the internet icon. Mousing over the search bar, he began to type.

_Dean Winchester_

Under one-hundred results popped up. He clicked on the first link. It led to a school website depicting a wrestling match from roughly ten and a half years prior to today.

"_The Lebanon Kansas wrestling team; Victor Huel, Ben Thompson, William Villas, Xander Villas, Dean Winchester, and Coulson Paul…"_

The internet article went on to explain how the team of boys went on to become state runner-ups for the Kansas wresting tournament. Under the text, a picture of the team was posted. All the boys were smiling, each jostling one another to be closest to the small silver trophy in the middle. There was only one boy who had actually gotten his hands on the thing, which was none other than his brother, Dean Winchester. Dean looked exactly as Sam had remembered him. The same impeccable hair, the same toothy grin, and the same kind smile. The hunter caught himself before he smiled back at the still life on his laptop screen. Quickly, he went back to the search results screen.

The second result was from the same school website, but this time entailing about the school prom just a few weeks after. There were many pictures, and the Winchester ended up scrolling through nearly all of them until he finally came across a grainy photograph of Dean and some girl dancing in the background; obviously and completely engrossed in one another. Sam felt his heart clench with both happiness for Dean, and a burning jealousy. He couldn't get off the pace fast enough.

The next few links held little to no information concerning his brother. A one-time band he had joined, only to quit after one gig. There was a picture of a newspaper clipping depicting a blurry picture of an older Dean, who was absolutely beaming at the camera. He was holding up a nest of baby birds after having caught them from falling to the ground in a low-hanging branch of a tree; only to be seen in the act by a friendly neighbor. Sam dug up a few documents on his brother's volunteer hours at a local humane society.

After skimming through results for roughly an hour, the Winchester came across a rather official looking website, titled "A Second Chance". Following the link, it brought him to a page littered with photos of smiling, impoverished people as they hugged or thanked an assortment of boys; ranging from eight year-olds and younger to twenty year-old men. Sam searched for an explanation, finding one at the bottom of the page.

_A Second Chance is a program dedicated to helping the poor or disadvantaged who need help in urban areas to rural areas in Kansas and parts of Oklahoma. Our creator, Dean Winchester, has been building upon A Second Chance's foundations since January of 1999. A Second Chance has already helped over six thousand people get back on their feet and into well-paying jobs as of October 2005. Call a local helpline if you are in need of assistance, and we can give you your much needed second chance._

Sam felt nothing for the next few moments. He wasn't angry. He wasn't happy. He wasn't sad. He was simply nothing. For about a minute, the Winchester just sat there, staring at the screen of his laptop. Then, he slid towards resentment.

The hunter had wondered what his brother had been doing for the ten plus years he had been away. Now he knew, and there was no real reason he shouldn't be grateful that Dean had gotten out of the life unscathed. But, no matter how much he tried not to, he just couldn't shake off the fire building in the pit of his stomach. Gritting his teeth slightly, he decided that a good long rest was in order. Quickly changing from his day clothes to only a light T-shirt and a pair of clean boxers, he slammed down on the lumpy spring mattress and saddled off into sleep.

_A man is in a car. He is pulling into his garage. Once the car is fully inside, the garage door slams shut behind him. Something is wrong. He did not shut the door and there is no one else around. Suddenly, the doors lock. Panic whells up inside of the man; inside of Sam Winchester._

_The car is still on. It is still pumping carbon dioxide into the small space. The panic is increasing. The man tries to shut the car off but it doesn't work._

_Panic translates into fear._

_The gas wafts into the vehicle, slowly choking the man. A blind, maniac terror now holds the man in its icy claws. Fumes keep filling the car. Sam is feels this man's horror as the doors fail to open. HE screams for help but no one is coming._

_The man is dying. He vainly scrabbles at the smooth glass windows. He gasps for air, eyes bulging. One hand goes to his throat as if trying to push oxygen into his own windpipe himself. The man caves in on himself, going limp and sluggishly leaning forward against the steering wheel._

_The man is dead_

The Winchester jolts out of the bed with a strangled cry. He gulps for the stale motel air like a drowning man clings to driftwood. The panic from his dream makes his heart pound, makes his head ache, makes his skin crawl. The dream had been too vivid, to lifelike.

Sam puts his sheet-wrinkled hand against his throat absently before stumbling out of the poor excuse for a bed. A quick glance to the bedside alarm clock tells him it's one thirty-two in the morning. He goes to his duffle bag against the wall and digs out a half-ripped piece of paper and a mostly empty Bic pen. He returns to the bed, leans over onto the nightstand and begins to record everything he remembers about the dream.

By the time he had finished, Sam was alert and ready to take on a pack of werewolves; or, in this case, drive across the country to Oklahoma. Quickly throwing together all of his belongings (not that there was a lot), the hunter was out the door and on the road.

The Impala hummed around him, both comforting the Winchester and occasionally giving him small jolts of panic when it jounced over a pothole or blew gaseous fumes in his general vicinity. Twice he nearly crashed the poor car into a tree. But, even still, he kept going. Absolutely nothing was more dangerous or terrifying than a Winchester with a mission.

Sam drove through the entire day. Fatigued as he was, the hunter would not stop. But, eventually even he had to admit that driving for a day and a half strait wasn't healthy – even for a hunter. That was saying something, considering Sam got an average of three hours of sleep on a lucky night. That wasn't counting the time spent passed out drunk on the motel couch.

It was getting dark, and the hunter was driving down a deserted dirt road somewhere on the edge of Nebraska. It was drizzling cold rain onto the windshield, making it nearly impossible to see more than fifteen feet in front of his own nose. He began to see things, like lights in the distance.

Wait… Those _were_ lights in the distance. Sleepily, Sam revved up the engine and coasted a bit faster down the sloppy road.

_Harvelle's Roadhouse_ the beaming sign on the roof read. Yawning, the Winchester pulled up next to a beat up red Chevy truck. Switching off the overused engine, he stumbled out of the driver's seat and into the roadhouse.

There were only a few people inside; mostly sitting alone with as much alcohol as they were allowed. Many had guns out and were polishing the handles, or were just fiddling around with them to pass the time. The hunter froze. Where the heck was he?

"What can I get for you?" A woman, probably in her late forties, asked.

"Uh, where exactly am I?"

The woman swore under her breath, so softly Sam wasn't sure he had heard it. "Those guys over there work for a circus a few miles up the road."

Sam scrunched up his face and considered her. She seemed to be telling the truth, but she may just be a damn good liar.

"Anything I can get for you?" She prompted.

"A… room would be nice if you could spare one."

"We have a few out back if you have the money."

Sam inclined his head and fished out the false credit card from his pocket and handed it to her without another word. She took it from him and motioned him up to the counter.

"What are you doing all the way out here?" the woman asked.

"Travelling to Oklahoma on a trip."

"Oklahoma? That's pretty far from here. Where did you start from?"

"Nowhere in particular."

The woman didn't seem to be listening. She was frowning at her computer screen. "We don't take fake information… Jose Bulivard?"

Sam felt a little pink rise to his cheeks. He couldn't remember why he had thought calling himself Jose was a good idea in the least. "I- I don't underst-"

"Cut the crap. We get quite a few scammers coming through here. I know a false credit card when I see one."

The Winchester blanched. "I am sorry. I'll just be goi-" he yawened loudly, even though he tried his best to hold it back, "going now."

He turned and headed towards the door.

Suddenly, a young blonde girl burst into the room. "Mom! There's a black Impala sitting in the parking lot!"

The woman looked startled. Sam paused by the door, watching the events unfold before him.

"Are you sure? It's pretty damn dark outside."

"Mom, I'm sure. Have you seen him?"

A couple men in the background grumbled to themselves. Most of them continued as they had and sipped on their beers in silence. Despite their silence, many of them seemed interested. Sam would have been suspicious at the behavior if he hadn't had been feeling oddly detached. Another yawn racked through his body.

"He's not here. I doubt that he'd come back anyways." The woman turned to address the crowd. "Anybody here drive that black Impala outside?"

None of them answered.

"That one's mine," Sam piped up quietly.

Both the blonde girl and the woman turned on him. "It is?"

"Yeah. Why?" He asked, feeling the need to sit down, but at the same time he really didn't want to lose his height advantage.

"Nothing," the woman quipped and turned back to whatever work she had been doing before Sam had entered the bar.

The blonde haired girl approached him. "You know any Johns?"

The hunter blinked. "Yeah, I do."

"John Winchester?" She asked.

Sam blinked again. Was this for real? "Why?" He said, harsher than he'd meant to.

The girl looked surprised, like she hadn't been expecting that answer; which she probably hadn't. "He sort of owes my mom. Big time. She's never told my why so please don't ask me."

"John Winchester is my dad," the Winchester told her slowly and unsurely.

The woman at the bar turned whipped around and seemed to really consider Sam for the first time since he had walked in.

"Mother of god," she said to herself.

"I'm sorry?"

"Sam Winchester?" She asked.

This was surreal. The world was spinning around him. He could hardly feel his feet. In fact, he was swaying back and forth dangerously.

_Probably should have gotten some more sleep_, Sam thought sluggishly as he passed out from sheer exhaustion.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6: Vacancy

…

Sam awoke with a start and a ham sandwich. The submarine seemed innocent enough – and the pink floral plate it was sitting on really didn't seem suspicious, so his hand shot out from underneath a thick quilt and grabbed it from the nightstand faster than he'd ever moved in his life; and Sam wolfed it down within the minute.

When the food had finally disappeared, Sam began to wonder where he was. First, he noticed the walls. The room was worn; it had a warm brown wallpaper, a window filtering in soft, morning light; a few, thick, used quilts on top of the bed; and a pale yellow, stuffed armchair with a man sleeping on top.

The Winchester started at the sight. He was scrawny to say the least; the man wore a threadbare jacket and T-shirt bearing the logo to some long-forgotten band name. The hunter looked at the sleeping form for a few more seconds before noticing the mullet. He stifled an incredulous snort.

Where the hell was he?

Getting out of the bed without waking his 'companion' was no easy task. The bed creaked and groaned like a quivering, old horse before finally silencing as Sam managed to remove himself from it. He was still in his clothing from the day before, dirt and all. The Winchester looked around for a weapon. Unfortunately, there was nothing at all. He checked the drawers in the nightstand. He only found a paper clip and an old eraser. Frowning, Sam stuffed the paper clip in his pocket. He might need it later.

The hunter checked under the bed next, which was immaculately clean. Sam bit back a groan before hoisting himself to his feet. Taking one last look at the sleeping man, the Winchester slipped out the door to his right.

He found himself in a hallway, decked out in the same brown wallpaper as the previous room. There were dusty pictures hung on the walls; each displaying a different person. Some were smiling; some held up various weapons, some were stoic and Sam knew immediately that they had seen terrible things. Most of the portraits were labeled with a nametag.

_Gordon Walker_ read a nametag under a smiling man. He was holding up a wickedly curved sickle. The hunter examined the photo further. Upon closer inspection, the smile did not really light up the rest of his face. It was as if someone had simply pasted it onto the picture with crafting glue. Feeling uncomfortable, Sam kept walking.

More names and frames were hung on the walls. _Jake Reilly, Caleb Blacker, Rick Alaban, Shawn Yinsin…_ the list went on. As the hunter neared the end of the hallway, the last few photos caught his eye.

John Winchester stood without a smile on his face, staring into the camera. He wore his old leather jacket and held his typical military posture. His face looked sallow and pale. His left hand was firmly clasp on his brother's shoulder. Dean was young in this picture, and he nearly didn't recognize him.

_John and Dean Winchester_ it read in a neat scrawl of red ink, destroying any doubts Sam may have had. Below the text was crammed a date, in much messier, black-inked handwriting. It must have been added at a later time.

_February 1994._

It had been taken about four months before Dean had left. The Winchester's hand went unconsciously to his pocket where his switchblade was usually kept, but it went limp when he realized that it was no longer there. Instead, he bit the inside of his lip and trudged onwards, towards the metal door at the end of the corridor.

Unsurprisingly, the exit was locked. Feeling satisfied that he had grabbed the paper clip from the night table earlier; he skillfully slipped one metal end into the keyhole and began to work. Less than a minute later, the doorknob made a quiet _click_ and unlocked. The hunter took it in one hand and let the door swing out slowly. He peered around the corner to check his surroundings.

The room it led to was the same bar he had been in the night before. Now that he was fully awake, he examined it in full.

The place was obviously old, but it was extremely well-kept. Tables occupied half of the room; their chairs placed upside-down on the surface. Alcohol shelves and coolers lined the other side. A large bar took up the rest of the space. It smelled faintly of lemons and cleaning agents. The bar was empty.

Cautiously, Sam snuck out of the hallway. He figured that there should be an office somewhere around here where the woman probably had stashed his stuff. He doubted she had called the police on him at this point because a. he currently wasn't in their custody and b. everybody that was drinking here the night before had a gun on them. The hunter resisted a snort. Of all the places he could have passed out, it just happened to be this place. Sam decided to pin it on the famous Winchester Luck.

Of course, not a moment later, his luck ran out. The Winchester felt a cool barrel of a rifle press into the small of his back.

"Don't move boy, or I'll blow you off your feet. This thing is loaded and I 'aint afraid to use it," threatened a familiar voice.

"I don't think you'll shoot me," Sam said evenly.

There was the sound of the safety clicking off.

"I stand corrected," he muttered.

"Who the hell are you?" the woman from last night asked.

The hunter huffed out an unamused laugh before suddenly spinning around and grabbing the gun by the barrel and yanking it out of the woman's grip. She swore loudly, trying to grab the weapon from Sam's hand. He utilized his height and pulled it out of her reach.

"What did I _do_ to you?" He hissed. "Why do you have a those pictures?" Sam demanded, jabbing the tip of the rifle towards the still open door from where he had just come from.

The woman whipped a handgun from under her coat and pointed it at the Winchester. "Put the gun down and we'll talk," she said.

"Fine, fine. Look, I'm setting it down. See?" He soothed, slowly lowering to the ground and setting his weapon under a table. The woman did the same; all the while considering him with a strange look that he couldn't quite categorize.

"Are you Dean?" The woman asked.

"Dean? Who the hell _are _you?"

"Ellen Harvelle. You didn't answer my question."

"Sam Winchester."

"_Sam_?"

"Uh… Yes?"

Suddenly, he was engulfed in a hug. "_Damn_, I thought I'd never see _you_ here!" Ellen exclaimed. "How's John?" she exclaimed brightly, but Sam could detect a well-hidden bitterness underneath her gung-ho attitude. "Treatin' you well I hope."

"What do you mean you never thought you would see me here? Where is _here_ exactly?" The hunter asked, avoiding the latter question.

"Harvelle's Roadhouse of course. Didn't your daddy ever tell you about it? No, of course he didn't. Anyways, this is a place where hunter's come by for a drink every now and again. Maybe pick up a hunt on their way. Hey - how exactly did you make it here without John?"

"Luck I guess. I was driving and decided to stop. Not much sleep lately."

"I'll say," Ellen chastised. "You look like you haven't slept in days, Sam."

"That's because I haven't."

"I know it is a rough job, but that isn't healthy. You 'aint helping anybody by working yourself to death."

"I have somewhere I need to be," the hunter said off-handedly.

"Don't we all?" Ellen sighed.

"It's important. Do you think I could get all of my stuff back? I'll be out of your hair."

"Sam," Ellen frowned, "you aren't bothering anybody bein' here. There was a time when we considered you Winchester's family."

"We?"

"Me an' my daughter Jo. You met her last night."

"Oh, right. I remember Jo. What do you mean 'there was a time'?"

The older woman's face fell into a stony mask. The Winchester immediately knew that he was on thin ice. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry," Sam said, adopting the tone he used during hunts to soothe victims. It didn't seem to have any effect on her.

"I'll get your things. Help yourself to a beer if you want," Ellen said stiffly, disappearing behind a door.

Rather than taking her up on the offer, Sam seated himself on one of the tall, rickety stools at the bar. He noticed that the back of the bar was riddled with papers and news clippings of what looked to be missing persons. Sam figured that the setup was for when hunters needed a hunt. Each flyer practically screamed of something supernatural. There was one that caught his eye.

_Daniel Elkins killed during a break-in last Saturday night._

Elkins. The Winchester could have sworn he had seen that name before. Unfortunately, Sam did not have time to think about it, because Ellen returned with all of the hunter's belongings. She was holding a pistol, a small golden charm on a black string, his flip knife, and Sam's utility jacket.

"Is this all of it? I wasn't really paying attention to what I took."

"Yeah that looks like all of it."

"What is this thing?" Ellen asked, holding up the necklace with a free hand.

"It was supposed to be a gift, but it's mine now," Sam replied tightly.

Ellen noticed his unwillingness to talk about it. "Alright then. Here you go."

The woman handed all of Sam's belongings back to him, which the Winchester readily accepted. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"No, really," Sam insisted, "Thank you."

Ellen chuckled slightly. "I couldn't have you dying on my property. Now get out of here," she smiled.

The hunter began to make his way from the bar stool to the front door. He could already hear the wind outside and the small droplets of freezing water striking the window panes of the building.

"Hey Sam," the woman called from behind him.

"Yeah?" the Winchester replied.

"I'll see you soon."

The hunter paused. Ellen was definably a nice person, someone he'd like to get to know better. But then there was the fact that everyone who knew him got hurt. Ellen was a hunter. There was little doubt she couldn't handle herself.

"Hey, uh, Ellen," he began, turning around to face the woman. "Have you ever heard anything about… demons?"

She turned chalk white. "Demons?"

"Yeah, demons; like, bible demons," Sam said unsurely, "from the bible," he added as if he hadn't already articulated his point.

"There is someone," she started, "that may know something." Ellen pulled out a piece of paper and a pencil from behind the bar counter. She began to scribble down letters and numbers rapidly as if she were afraid something might stop her. "He knows more lore than anyone I've ever met before in my life. But, he doesn't really like to help us very much. Maybe you can get him to talk."

Ellen returned to the Winchester and handed the paper to him. It read:

_346 Billings Street_

"Is that nearby?"

"Colorado."

"Colorado? I don't have time to go to Colorado. I need to get to Oklahoma."

"Why?" asked Ellen, confused, "Why Oklahoma?"

"It's complicated, Ellen."

"Fine. You go ahead, and I'll give him a call. I'll ask if he can meet you there. Where are you heading in Oklahoma?"

"I- I… I don't know actually."

"You don't even know? Then why are you rushing there in such a hurry?"

"It's compli-"

"I swear," the woman threatened, "If you tell me one more time that 'it's complicated', I'll wring your throat myself."

Sam believed her.

Ellen sighed, running a hand through her hair absently. Suddenly, the hunter heard footsteps running towards them from one of the hallways. A man burst through a door to his left. The Winchester recognized him immediately. It was the man with a mullet who had been sleeping on the chair where the hunter had woken up a half an hour earlier.

"Yo, Ellen! That Winchester boy of yours is awake!" He called before setting eyes on the tall hunter himself. "Actually, I see you already know that. Couldn't you have woken me up?"

Ellen opened her mouth to say something, but Sam beat her to the punch. "Actually, I was just leaving."

"Hmm, I was looking forward to new company," he complained.

"We get enough wayward brutes already," the woman chastised. "Besides, you can drink enough for all of them."

"Well said sister," the man said.

"That's Ash," she told Sam. "Ash, this is Sam Winchester."

"Nice to meet you," Sam told Ash.

"Likewise. Where are you heading?"

"He says he doesn't know, but it's somewhere in Oklahoma."

"That true?" Ash asked, and the hunter nodded.

"Do you know what it looks like? I could probably track it down for you." The man said.

"You could do that?"

"Almost one-hundred percent sure. There isn't a lot I _can't_ do."

"He was a student at MIT," Ellen said.

"Guilty," the man with the mullet quipped.

"With that haircut?" Sam blurted.

"Business in the front, party in the back," he said, waving to the corresponding sections of his head.

"Right," the Winchester said, cracking a smile. "So what do you need me to do?"

"Well, it would be great if you could just describe the place. Stores, street names, maybe a company logo, license plates; that sort of thing. As much as you can give me."

"Okay. I can do that."

…

About fifteen minutes later, Ash was situated and Sam was free to go with a new phone number. The mullet told him that he would call within the day with his findings. That gave Sam a twelve hour window to do whatever he wanted.

"Hey Ellen," Sam asked over a cup of coffee at a bar table with Ellen, "how far is it to that address you gave me?"

"Two hours, give or take thirty minutes."

"Who is he? The man at the address."

"He never gives us the same name twice, but his information is always good. I haven't seen a case yet that he's helped us with that has gone wrong. We don't know who his informants are but they've not been wrong yet. To be honest, it's a little disconcerting sometimes."

"Well what do you call him?"

"The jerk."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah. He marches in here, messes with ninety percent of my customers and then downs more alcohol than I thought was possible. After paying, he leaves and I don't see hide nor tail of him for another few months when he comes back."

"What do you mean 'messes with people'?"

"Hell, I'm not sure. Weird things just seem to happen around that man. Weird for even me. He seemed to have an especially bad problem with Gordon Walker. Hey, listen, Sam. You might want to leave soon if you want to have time to make it to this guy's place and be back before Ash finishes up in there."

"Good idea. Thank you again for everything Ellen."

"I want to see you back here, okay Winchester?"

"Sure Ellen."

With that having been said, Sam returned the cup he had been drinking from to the sink, grabbed his belongings and headed outside into the light drizzling storm. The Impala was exactly where he had left it the night before, and just as still.

"Sorry about that," the hunter told the car absently, apologizing for leaving it out in the elements. The car, in return, was absolutely silent.

It was about two and a half hours later when Sam found himself at a very familiar street, under very different circumstances. Though, he failed to pinpoint exactly how he knew the area. That seemed to happen to him more and more often as of late.

The door was a vibrant yellow. A powerful wave of Deja-vu struck the Winchester. It was so potent that it was impossible to not to try and figure out where he knew the place from. He was so absorbed in his own little world that he completely missed the figure standing in the window.

Sam shook his head like a wet dog (which he was, because it was raining) to rid himself of the thoughts. Almost angrily, the Winchester knocked on the front door.

The effect was immediate. The yellow door swung inwards, revealing a short, smiling man. "I thought you'd never make it!" he exclaimed, practically dragging the hunter in by one hand. It struck Sam where he was now.

"You're that bartender!" he exclaimed in complete and utter shock.

Gabe smirked, "You think I'd make a more lasting impression. I guess I'll take what I can get."

"What the Hell!"

The shorter man scoffed. "Yes Sam. This is actually happening."

"You remember my name?"

"Puh-leez, it's hard to forget about six and a half feet of sad puppy when it walks into your bar and starts sulking."

Gabe pulled Sam into a homey living room and pushed him onto an extremely large couch. Somehow he had lost his wet and muddy shoes along the way. The couch was probably the most comfortable thing he had ever sat in. The room itself was a light blue. The wall to his right was made completely out of windows. A flat screen television dominated the wall directly in front of him. The rest of the room was practically covered in full bookshelves.

"I see you are admiring the scenery," Gabe said, eyebrows waggling. The way he said that made Sam think he wasn't talking about the room.

"I didn't drive here to admire the scenery," the Winchester said.

"Let me guess, you need information."

"That was the idea."

"Hmm… What's in it for me?"

"The satisfaction of helping me, of course," Sam snarked.

"Ooh, I like you," the shorter man said, plopping down on the couch uncomfortably close to the Winchester. Sam scooted away.

"What do you want then?" the hunter asked.

"You basically just handed me a blank check, you know. I could ask for anything."

"I am hoping you'll have the decency to ask for something reasonable and something I will agree to."

"Then you don't know me. Indecent and unreasonable are part of my job description."

Sam only sighed.

"Fine fine fine," the man said, "I'll tell you anything you want; provided that I get to come with you."

"What?"

"I'll tell you whatever you want, but only if I get hunt with you."

Sam was dumbfounded. He examined Gabe. He seemed completely sincere. But why would he want to hunt with him? Personal angst aside, it just made no sense. They hardly knew each other. Hunting wasn't exactly a team sport for the most part. There was every opportunity for Gabe to get hurt. Instead of asking why, he asked something completely different.

"Is your real name Gabe?"

It was Gabe's turn to be surprised. "Why wouldn't it be?"

"I came here from the roadhouse. Ellen told me about you, and she told me that you never go by the same name twice."

The man was quiet for a few seconds. "Yeah," he said eventually, "my real name is Gabe."

"Then you can come with me," the Winchester told him. "We can hunt together."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7: Chalking Up to be a Bad Day

…

"Aren't you going to ask _why_ I want to go hunting with you?" Gabe whined from the passenger's seat of the car. It had been awhile since the last time he hadn't been alone in the Impala and Sam was having a hard time getting used to it. Gabe wasn't making it any easier.

"No I'm not."

"But _why_?"

"I'm just not going to, okay?" the taller man responded evenly. To be honest, Sam wasn't going to ask because he was terrified of what the answer may be.

"I don't get you," the other man muttered. "I don't like not getting things."

"Too bad."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gabe pouting at him. Doing his best to ignore the shorter man, Sam kept driving. They only had a few more minutes until they arrived back at the roadhouse. The Winchester hadn't called ahead to tell him that he had company, so he doubted that the reuniting would go very well.

"When we get back, can you not mess with everybody there?" the hunter asked.

"What? Did dear old Ellen tell you about my mischievous side?"

"Yeah actually she did," Sam huffed. "So that means no pissing off anyone, okay?"

"But _Sammy…!_"

"Don't call me that. It's creepy."

"Okay Samsquatch."

"Dude!"

"Fine. How about Sammich?" Mmm… sandwich. That makes me hungry. I'm hungry!"

"Just call me Sam, _okay_? We're almost there so calm down!"

The Winchester fought the urge to run a hand over his face. It was like driving with a petulant child! Gabe continued to whine for the next five minutes until Sam finally pulled into the dark roadhouse parking lot. The other man hopped out of the car, sucking on a sucker that he had somehow gotten his hands on. The Winchester wasn't going to ask where he had gotten it from.

They walked in together. Within the minute, the hunter had already lost track of the smaller man in the throng of drunken hunters. The place was busy. There were sounds of what must have been an arcade game from somewhere in the room. There were sounds of laughter and jeering. There were sounds of some strange song that he had never heard of resonating from the speakers. Sam pushed through the crowd and made his way to the back of the room where Ash said he would meet him. He hoped that Gabe wouldn't get into trouble. He intended to get out of there as soon as he could.

"Hey Sam," said Ash from beside a tough-looking man at the bar, polishing a sickle.

_Gordon Walker,_ the name popped into Sam's mind unbidden. He remembered the photo in the hallway from the day before. Gordon peered up at the taller hunter from his work. His eyes were calculating, like a predator. The Winchester gravitated away.

"Hey Ash. Did you find it?"

"I did. It's a small town called Guthrie. Here's the map," he handed him a stack of papers, "I also looked into strange deaths in the area and I came up with nothing. It's a clean area. What do you think you'll find there?"

"Something important," Sam said, slightly unfocused.

Ash noticed and frowned. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Why?"

"You've got a scary look on your face. Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah," the Winchester said, managing a lukewarm smile. "Don't worry about me. Hey, I need to go. Take care of yourself, alright?"

"Yeah, sure man," Ash said unsurely, giving Sam one last once-over before turning and disappearing into the masses of people.

_This is going well enough_, he mused to himself as the hunter too disappeared into the crowd to find Gabe, his new partner.

Gabe actually ended up finding him. The smaller man was flying through the air when he collided into the Winchester's chest, knocking them both to the floor. An extremely angry hunter suddenly appeared out of nowhere, holding a loaded rifle.

"You think this is funny?" she screeched, motioning with the tip of her gun towards where she must have been sitting. There, sitting in her seat, was a plastic skeleton. It looked completely harmless from Sam's point of view from under Gabe and on the floor.

"How did you know?" The hunter shouted, "_how did you know!?"_

"We should _really_ get going," Gabe whispered nonchalantly into Sam's ear from his lap.

The woman, on the other hand, was looking more and more murderous by the second. The Winchester wasn't sure if _she_ had been the one to toss his partner across the room, but he honestly wouldn't put it past her. She looked strong enough to toss Sam _himself_ out the window and not break a sweat.

"What the Hell did you _do_?" Sam demanded.

"Look, we can talk about it later," Gabe said airily.

"Fine. But don't think I'm not mad at you," the hunter hissed, and instantly, they were on their feet and moving as quickly as they could towards the exit.

Employing guerrilla tactics, the two partners managed to lose the psychotic woman in the crowd of people. They ended up outside only through sheer force of will and knocking a few people onto their asses. Gabe managed to convince said hunters that the psychotic woman was the one who shoved them in the first place, making their getaway smoother. Sam wasn't happy about the arrangement in the least. The two hardly managed escape unseen when a huge brawl broke out within the roadhouse.

"I'm really starting to regret allowing you to come along," Sam growled, pinching his nose and leaning up into the sky.

"I'm starting to be glad I _did_," the other exclaimed. "That was _hilarious!"_

"What the hell was that with the skeleton?" the Winchester asked, heading towards the silent, cold Impala sitting on the outskirts of the dark parking lot.

"Let's just say that wasn't the only skeleton I pulled out of her closet," he snickered.

The Winchester unlocked the car door and swung it open; all while glaring at Gabe. Gabe, on the other hand, simply shrugged and climbed into the car after him.

"We aren't going anywhere until you tell me what you did," Sam said crossly. To exercise his point, he locked both car doors and put the keys into his jacket pocket. They nestled right next to his switch knife.

"Sammy," the other man pouted, but the hunter wasn't buying it.

"You heard me."

Gabe continued to pout while pulling a bag of M&amp;M's out of his pocket. The bag wrinkled and popped as the smaller man opened it with his teeth, the thin plastic of the bag sliding open, and then the small chocolates raining down onto his lap and the floor.

"Oops," he smirked, bending down to pick them up.

"Gabe," the hunter said menacingly.

"I'm shaking in my shoes, kiddo! You are just too damn scary for the likes of me," the nuisance jeered happily.

Sam deflated. "Fine," he grunted, digging out the keys once again from his pocket. "But don't think I'll forget about this. Don't do it again or we will have a problem."

"Glad you see sense, Sam-I-Am."

"It's Sam."

"Sammich."

"_Sam."_

"Keep going and I'll start to make them more embarrassing," Gabe taunted.

"Then I'll just stab you while you're sleeping."

"Sam's-Culottes."

"Shut up," the Winchester acquiesced, shoving the keys into the ignition more forcefully than he had intended to. Mentally apologizing to the machine, he switched it on and it came alight, roaring gleefully in anticipation of returning to the road. Instead of doing that, however, the hunter pulled far enough away from the roadhouse for them not to be seen.

"This is your last chance to back out," Sam said wryly.

"What?" said the other, distracted by the pack of candy he recently opened and dumped everywhere.

"I said; this is your last chance to back out of our deal. As annoying as you are, I don't want to be responsible for your death. It just isn't worth anything you could possibly tell me."

Gabe looked up from his chocolate-smeared lap, appearing astounded. "You think it would be that easy to get rid of me?"

"It isn't about what I want," he stressed, "It's about you _not dying_."

"Don't worry about me, kiddo. This wouldn't be my first rodeo. Your concern is cute, though. You should do that more often."

"Do you have to treat everything like a joke?"

"Hmm," the shorter man thought for a second, theatrically tapping his chin. "Yes."

Sam rolled his eyes and drove out towards the road. The car jarred and bumped along the uneven pavement until they were well away from the Harvelle's home. The night was young, the stars were just returning to the sky after the daytime. From somewhere over the horizon was the moon. There were a few clouds in the sky.

"We are heading to Oklahoma," Sam informed the other.

"Oklahoma?" Gabe quipped, "Why there?"

"Because I know we will find something there," the Winchester said without looking away from the road.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his partner look contemplative. It unnerved him for a moment, but he shook off the feeling. "Do you have a problem with Oklahoma?"

"What is it that you think we will find?"

"I'm not entirely sure."

Gabe nodded absently. The rest of the ride was in silence.

…

The motel at Guthrie was quaint and not a hovel; as opposed to what Sam was used to squatting in. This was mostly because of the smaller man's apparently deep pocket and strangely charming personality. He had somehow earned the pair of them a two bed, two bath room, complete with a scenic view. Not to mention the fifty percent discount.

Gabe had borrowed Sam's laptop and was currently chipping away on the keys, doing who-knows-what. Sam was browsing through the last months' worth of police archives on recent deaths in the area. So far, the Winchester had come up with jack squat.

"Hey, Sammy, look at this," said the other man, turning the laptop to face the taller of the two. It was a website depicting a young man, Andy Smith, backstage at an Aerosmith concert with a friend. The two were smiling broadly at the camera and were both laden with merchandise.

"Yeah, and?" Sam grunted, not all happy to be disturbed from his research.

"_And,_" the man stressed, "both of these guys are butt poor. See little Andy here?" He motioned to the scruffiest of the pair, "he is so deep in debt; I wouldn't doubt he knows just how hot the core of the Earth is. _And_, he has no debt flags. Doesn't that seem odd to you?"

The hunter frowned. Yes, that was odd. But did it constitute a lead? No.

"Do you need more evidence? Fine. Give me ten minutes."

The tapping continued as the former bartender began to delve into Andy's life once more. It was exactly eight minutes when he turned to Sam again, vying for his attention.

"What now?" he sighed.

"Andy Gallagher's house went up in flames in 1983. The fire originated from the nursery on his six month birthday. Now tell me that isn't suspicious."

"I- what?" Sam was stunned. "How did you know?" he asked softly, trying to work through all the details in vain.

"Ellen told you I was an expert, did she not?"

"Then what does it mean? My… my mom died the same way. How did you know?" The Winchester said quietly at first, but then grew angrier.

"Calm down Sam and let me explain."

"How the hell did you know all of that!?"

Gabe had the audacity to look abashed. Sam looked at him, _really looked at him_. He studied every detail he could find. John Winchester had instilled into him over the years that _everyone _had a motive. _Everyone _has secrets. _Everyone _is out to get you, and the only people you can trust are your own family. Sam had never taken that advice up until now. Gabe was looking down at his feet, looking for something to say. His hair was immaculate, even though the two of them had been up for over twelve hours. He was charming. He was well-off. He had all the information Sam needed. Something was off about this man.

"Who are you?" Sam asked evenly, coolly.

Gabe looked up. "Gabe Novak," he said with a slight smirk.

"How did you come by this information?" he inquired, cut-throat. Sam was in his comfort zone. Asking questions was his specialty.

"I do my research. I've been at this job for a long time Sammich."

"You looked specifically for someone like Andy, didn't you?"

The man paused, clearly not expecting that particular question. After his hesitation, he shook his head. "Yeah, you could say that."

"Why?"

"Your friend Ellen told you about my specialty, didn't she?" He waited for the hunter to nod his agreement. "I look into things that are weird even for hunters."

"You talk about hunters like you aren't one."

"I'm not, not really."

"Then what _are _you?"

Something flashed across Gabe's features too fast for the Winchester to notice consciously. Instead, the emotion was quietly catalogued into Sam's subconscious. Outwardly, however, the shorter man dug into his pocket and pulled out a Hershey bar, mostly to give his hands something to do.

"A specialist," Gabe assured. "Just a specialist."

"A specialist." The hunter stated. "A specialist who is interested in me, too?"

The former nodded, fiddling with the smooth plastic of the chocolate.

"Why is the house fire important?" The Winchester demanded. "How does it draw Andy and I together?"

Now, the former bartender was looking uncomfortable. The hunter noticed this, and began to press for his advantage. "Why, Gabe? Why did you want to come with me? I should have asked before. Nobody wants to be in this life, unless they are suicidal, and you don't seem like the suicidal type to me. I've met plenty too, and you are nothing like them. So what makes me so damn special!?" The last word of his tirade hung in the air for a moment, or for forever. Neither man was quite sure.

"Can I make a deal with you?" Gabe asked quietly, all humor drained from his expression.

Sam raised an eyebrow, not yet willing to speak.

"I'll tell you why as soon as I know for sure."

The quiet was stifling. The Winchester found it hard to breath. He was very well aware that if he agreed, there was a possibility that he would never find the answer to his questions. There was also every opportunity that he _would _know. It had been all too long that he had trusted anyone other than John; but even his own father had let him down.

"Fine."

With that single syllable uttered, the Winchester turned tail and stalked out of the room.

…

Andy Gallagher was a hard man to find. According to the local library's computer database, Andy's last location of employment was a diner only a ten minutes' walk away. He got there in five.

"You won't get anything of Andy. Sorry, but they never do."

"They?" Sam inquired calmly to the girl pouring him more coffee.

"You're a debt collector, right? Once and a while they come by. I don' know what Andy says to them, but, they never come back."

"I'm actually a lawyer," Sam said; a small ache running up his spine at the mention of his dream profession. "I represent his great-aunt Lita. She had recently passed away and left him a sizable estate. Are you a friend of his?"

"I used to be, yeah. I don't see much of Andy anymore."

"Andy?" said an excited young man a few years younger than the Winchester himself. "Andy kicks ass man! He can get you into anything! He even got me backstage Aerosmith once; it was beautiful, bro."

The waitress looked annoyed by the man's outbreak of enthusiasm. "Uh huh yeah, why not bussing a table or two, Webber?"

The man, Webber, looked awkwardly from Sam to the waitress and back to Sam, seeming to contemplate something. Apparently making a decision, he said "Yeah, you bet boss," and then shuffled away even more awkwardly, giving the Winchester an embarrassed semi-wave.

"Look," the girl half laughed-half sighed, "If you wanna find him, try Orchard Street. Just look for a van with a barbarian queen painted on the side. She's riding a polar bear. It's kinda hard to miss."

The girl was true to her word. Not fifteens' worth of looking and Sam found himself in front of a freakishly detailed, scantily dressed Viking queen, riding atop a polar bear. He stared at the mural for a good minute before remembering that he had work to do.

"Andy Gallagher?" He called out to the car. No answer. Peering into the driver's seat, he came across nothing. A quick look in the trunk pulled out drugs, a disco ball and shaggy carpet. Apparently, Andy wasn't home.

"Uh, excuse me?" sounded a voice, "What exactly are you doing?"

Sam turned around slowly, wanting to seem like he was supposed to be there. The man who spoke was wearing a shiny black robe and looked like he had just crawled out of bed. His hair was ruffled and sticking up in odd places and he needed to shave. It was Andy Gallagher.

"Hello," the hunter said cheerfully, happy that he had dawned on his suit before he left the motel.

"What are you doing going through my van?"

"Well," Sam said, digging out his wallet from his pocket, "I am with the state police. I need to ask you a few questions." He pulled out his fake state trooper card and flashed it to the scruffy, confused man in front of him. Andy took it and examined it, then handed it back; seemingly pleased and unhappy with it.

"So, if I could just-"

"Well, actually, I don't think that's a good idea."

"Excuse me, sir?"

The man looked confused for a split second, but then recomposed himself. He adjusted the ugly robe around his shoulders. "I said, I don't think you want to ask me any questions."

It was the Winchester's turn to be confused. Was this a joke? "I'm sorry, sir; but I do need to ask you questions. As you saw by my card-"

"Go away," Andy exclaimed, more forcefully than before.

"Andy, I'm not going anywhere. I just need a few minutes of your time."

"Go away!"

"Why are you telling me to go away? I am a police officer! I can have you detained!"

"How are you doing that?" the man shouted, drawing the attention of a few pedestrians.

"Doing what?"

"Why aren't you going away? Tell the truth!"

"Is this how you get out of all your debts, Andy?" Sam asked, changing tides.

"Tell me how you're doing that!"

"Listen here," Sam growled, getting up close to the scruffy man. "Whatever it is that you're doing, _it's not working_. So just stop and tell me what the hell you are."

"What are you talking about, man?" he whined, backing away from the towering hunter. "I'm just Andy!"

The Winchester let out a crude snort. "I'll believe _that_ when the world ends. Tell me what your plans are before I do something you might regret."

"Plans? What plans? Go away!"

"I'm not going away!"

Suddenly, three police cars tore down the street. By this time it was getting late; the sun was setting over the roofs of the buildings that lined the streets. The light illuminated Sam's furious face and Andy's terrified one. Gritting his teeth, the hunter turned towards the cowering man. He poked him roughly in the chest. "_I'm not finished with you yet_."

For the second time that day, Sam turned and left.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8: My Twin Killed Four People

…

By the time the Winchester arrived at the crime scene, it was too late. There was a small crowd of people gathering around a seemingly normal house. It was dark at this point. The sky was overcast and Sam could feel it begin to drizzle. Despite the weather conditions, the crowd stubbornly remained in their fixed positions as semi-silent guards watching over the area. A quick conference with a neighbor and Sam gathered that a man had supposedly committed suicide in the garage.

The hunter's heart dropped. It was all utterly surreal as he approached the line of police officers that congregated in the garage. He pulled out his fake FBI badge, flashing it to the men and women working. They let him past without too much trouble. That's when Sam saw the crying woman.

"Hello," Sam said to the woman, who was holding a tissue up to her face, wiping away the many tears that cascaded from her eyes. She didn't say anything in return, but she looked up from the cement flooring and into the Winchester's eyes. He fought the urge to shift uncomfortably.

"I'm here with the FBI," he stated, drawing out the fake card once again and flashed it. She nodded slightly, visibly trying to get herself together. "I was wondering if I could ask a few questions."

"Sure," she croaked, "but; how did you get here so quickly?"

"We like to stay on top of things," Sam shrugged.

"Okay," she said, sniffling.

ooo

Meanwhile, Gabriel was pacing back and forth in the motel room. His every step screamed agitation, but his face was a mask of contemplation. He knew that he should probably go after Sam, just to make sure that no harm befell the unfortunate human; but, he was not exactly a straight forward being. No. He specialized in messed-up sideways and backwards methods. He was the anti-thesis to all of the Host of Heaven. No biggie.

The kid was smarter than Gabriel had first credited him. He asked the right questions, even if he didn't quite know it. Gabe had been spending the last twenty years or so tailing Azazel, the yellow-eyed demon. He had his suspicions that the creature of Hell had been gunning towards the apocalypse, and he had been right. Though, the trickster hadn't known the full extent of it.

The prophecies had been sung throughout the entire Host of Heaven for millennia. Two human brothers would become the chosen vessels of Michael and Lucifer, and then duel to the death on the chosen field. Gabriel had tuned out the songs after he ran away until he couldn't hear them anymore; even if he had wanted to. In hindsight, that had been a bad idea. The Archangel was at a loss for information.

Gabriel had simply assumed that Azazel would force his blood onto a single infant, giving the trickster the means to easily identify Lucifer's vessel. Unfortunately, it seemed that the demon had no idea who to even _give_ the blood to in the first place. This resulted in a few thousand or so children Gabe had to sort through to find the true vessel, each one with just as much taint as the last. There were certain factors that made the job easier, however. Girls were ruled out, those with a sister, or more or less than one sibling. That narrowed down the pool to about two or three hundred people.

The trickster sighed loudly. He had been skipping around from person to person, spending a few weeks with each one and trying to figure out if they were who he was looking for or not. Sam originally had been at the top of his list of bunk-mates, but that damn John Winchester had been keeping him too well hidden. They moved around constantly, never staying in one place for more than a week and a half. Once he had finally found the moose of a man, the pool of "gifted" children had dwindled to less than twenty.

He had been starting to lose hope that he would ever be successful.

That is, until just a few short months ago, the tall man had hobbled into the bar where he was squatting as an employee and ordered a salad and coffee. Almost immediately the trickster could sense something different about Sam. It may have just been the dirt and dabs of dried blood on his jacket, however.

Yeah, Sam was special all right. The only problem was whether or not he should do anything about it just yet.

_Ice cream, ice cream, we all scream for ice cream!_ Gabriel's phone rang to alert him of an incoming call from the pocket of his jacket. The Archangel jammed his hand into the side and pulled it out, trying not to sound annoyed when he answered the phone. "Hey-o Sam-o!"

"Gabe."

"Whacha need?"

"I was hoping you could look up telekinesis. I'll admit I'm at a bit of a loss."

"No need. Research is too boring anyways. Well, maybe just the way _you_ do research."

"Look, Gabe-"

"I know all about telekinesis, so just lay it all on me."

"You know about it? How?"

"Specialist, remember?"

The line was quiet for a second. The only assurance that Sam was still there was the faint murmuring of a crowd and his breathing. "I remember," the hunter finally answered coldly.

"So go ahead then, kiddo."

There was an annoyed sigh. "Fine. A man just supposedly committed suicide inside of his garage. But it wasn't a suicide."

"How do you know?"

The Winchester hesitated ever so slightly. It was so brief that even Gabriel had almost missed it. But before he could comment, Sam was off like a rocket. "There were some signs of a struggle. His wife said he had been just fine the day before. He even called about fifteen or so minutes before he died, saying that he would be home soon and that he loved her. Nobody had been around the house for miles, and apparently the garage door shut on its own accord."

"Quite a story there," Gabe commented. "Why do you think it was Professor X?"

"I just do."

The trickster snorted. There was an annoyed sigh on the other end.

"Just trust me on this, okay?"

"Fine, fine. Whatever you say, Winchester. If it _was _someone with telekinetic powers, than they would have had to have been reasonably strong. It doesn't sound like witches to me, not their style. I doubt any minor gods would have acted on a single guy, either. They tend to like mass destruction, if anything."

"Minor gods?"

"Yeah, gods," Gabe said, waving his hand theatrically even though no one was there to see it. "Anansi, Tyr, Freyr, Jörmungandr, you name it, we'll pack and ship."

"They exist?"

The Archangel held back another snort. Sure, the Winchester was smart, but he was also so Dad-damned _stupid._ "Yeah, obviously."

"Obviously?" Sam asked, incredulous. "I don't see how you can know for sure."

Gabe pointedly ignored Sam.

"So who was it?" the hunter gave in after a few moments. "Any ideas?"

_Yes_, Gabe thought. "Lemme get back to you on that one," the Trickster opted for instead of the former.

There was another pause, and then the line shut down with a pixilated _click._

Gabriel frowned at the wall. He was wondering why Sam would have jumped to the telekinetic-conclusion so fast. He sincerely doubted that the giant had been tipped off by someone, otherwise he himself would have known. Sure, the Archangel had dropped a few hints; but they were obscure enough to be left alone. Unless… the Winchester had already developed his demon-y powers.

Gabriel could have slapped himself in the face. Duh, of course he had! He had already turned 22, which means that his abilities had already manifested. A jolt of panic struck Gabriel. He was running out of time. Quickly, he pocketed his phone and rushed out the door, heading for Sam's location.

ooo

There wasn't much left for Sam to do at the crime scene, so instead of heading back to the motel, where Gabe would be inevitably waiting, he opted for a late dinner at a local Dairy Queen. The air was frigid inside the horrendous black, white, and red painted store. It smelled like cleaning detergent and wet metal. The once neon orange counter where the Winchester had ordered his chicken sandwich and water was sticky with spilled soft-serve.

Laden with a small bag of food, he found an empty booth and seated himself, the equally neon orange, plastic covered cushions squeaking under his weight. The cashier threw him a half-hearted glare, yawned, lost interest, and then looked away again. Sam pulled out the sandwich and took a bite. It was dry, but tasteful. By no accounts the worst meal he had had in his travels. He took another bite, barely registering the tingling bell that announced a new customer.

"Sam?"

The hunter looked up. A man stood in the shadows beneath a broken light bulb.

"Gabe?"

The man didn't say anything, merely beckoned with one hand and disappeared out of the door. There was no mistaking that he wanted the Winchester to follow. Downing the last of his chicken, Sam threw away the paper bag, grabbed his water bottle and followed.

"Over here," the man said. Sam could hardly see the figure, it was getting very dark.

"Gabe, this isn't funny. Did you find something useful or are you just trying to annoy me?"

"Who is Gabe?" the man asked.

A strange lurch shot through the Winchester. "Seriously, stop it." He stepped towards the mysterious man. He wasn't much shorter than himself, and much taller than the former bartender. Serious eyes glared at him, reflecting the low lighting. Sam could make out ragged clothes and an unshaved face.

"Sam, it's me."

Realization struck; he knew that voice. "Dad?"

"It's good to see you again, Sam. Who is Gabe?"

The younger hunter could have laughed. John was all business as usual. "My… partner," his voice wavered on the word partner. There wasn't really a word for what they word. Perhaps a more apt description would be "dick in crime". "He's been helping me on this case, he calls himself a specialist."

"A specialist in what, exactly?" John frowned, regarding Sam with a cool curiosity.

"Just a specialist," Sam mimicked Gabe from earlier that day.

The frown deepened, but luckily he didn't comment. "Did you want something, or were you just stopping by to say hello?" The younger Winchester demanded, a small amount of malice seeping into his voice.

"Have you done what I asked?"

Sam paused. John was looking at him with such intensity that it made the hunter want to take a few steps back. He couldn't remember his father _ever_ looking at him like that. "Are you okay, sir?"

John chuckled, honest to god _chuckled_. "Sorry, it's just been Hell trying to find you." He offered Sam a sharp smile that reminded him of a hungry shark. The smile was foreign on his father's face, but the Winchester felt he had seen it before. Setting his odd notions aside, Sam examined his father closer. He looked like he hadn't washed in days. It also looked like he hadn't had much sleep lately. In the low lighting, John's eyes looked dark. It all set Sam's hunter instincts on edge.

"How about," the taller man said carefully, "You tell me where you disappeared off to for months and months, _then _I'll talk about that damn warehouse."

The frown returned, and he opened his mouth to speak. Just before Sam could brace himself for whatever anger his father would spew, a familiar face appeared around the corner of the Dairy Queen. "Heya, Sam!"

"Gabe," Sam said, half angrily, half relieved.

"Gabe?" John exclaimed in shock. Sam raised an eyebrow at him. Why would he be so surprised?

Gabe, on the other hand, took one look at his father and tensed. It was so subtle that Sam was lucky to spot it. His hunter instincts at this point were screaming bloody murder at him. Something was very, _very _wrong with this situation. His hand went unconsciously to his pocket, where the old flip knife was kept hidden and safe. John, however, tracked this movement and grabbed the hand, pulling him away from Gabe. "Sam, stay away from him!" he hissed.

"Dad, stop! What are you doing?" The Winchester yelled, trying to pry the arm off of his own. "Gabe's a good guy, he's my friend!" he said desperately.

"He's not human," came the snarling reply.

"Get off of him! He's not yours!" The former bartender lunged at John, striking out with a bottle of water that Sam hadn't noticed he'd had. The liquid splashed all over his shirt and his father's face behind him. His father's reaction was immediate. Screeching and clawing at his face, the man stumbled backwards, releasing Sam.

The Winchester was immediately at his friend's side. Gabe shoved the half-full bottle of water into Sam's scratched hands. He looked furious, his jaw was set, and his hands clenching. "Next time," Gabe insisted, directing his voice at the _thing_, "don't be a dick and attack Sam."

The demon recollected itself and grinned, spitting excess liquid onto the dirt. "I have to admit, the holy water was a surprise," it sneered, "But then again, so were you."

Gabe snorted, his eyes flashing. Sam gripped the holy water tighter. "Let Sam's father go."

"Hmm," the demon pondered, "I don't think so. I like it in here. He puts up quite a fight, almost a challenge." In reply, the former bartender took a threatening step forward. The demon flinched, but recovered and smirked again. "Nuh-uh, I don't think so," it said in a sing-song voice. Suddenly, John was gone.

"Damn," Gabe growled, deflating.

"What the Hell just happened?" Sam demanded, shoving the bottle into his pocket. It made a quiet _clink_ when it hit his flip knife.

"Your father is possessed by a demon," he said bluntly, running a hand through his hair.

"I hadn't noticed," Sam snapped.

"We need to get out of here. That demon will tell others and then they will come looking for y- us."

The hunter let out a shaky breath then nodded. They would talk later. Right now, they were both in danger. Gabe shot back with a weak smile, grabbed Sam's hand tenderly, and then the both of them started back to the motel. Luckily, the trip was uneventful. Unluckily, however, it was nearly two in the morning by the time they got back.

"Is your arm okay?" Gabe asked when Sam was stripping from his wrinkled, cheap suit. One of the cuffs was torn, and it smelled like musty air, sweat, and dumpster trash. He peeled the white-ish undershirt off the skin of his back and turned to face Gabe. Gabe's eyes snapped up from his naked backside to his face.

"Uh, yeah… My arm is fine," Sam said awkwardly, a pink tint rising onto his face. Quickly, he tossed the shirt onto his bed and waddled into the bathroom, pretending not to feel eyes on his back the entire time. He shut the door behind him and started the shower soon after. Stepping in was like stepping into a cool rain after a hot day.

The shower didn't last as long as Sam had wanted it to. Out of mostly habit, Sam kept it to less than five minutes and stepped out again, feeling somewhat refreshed. He scanned the room for the clothes he had brought in with him… and came up with nothing.

_Shit_, the Winchester thought. He had forgotten the change in the other room. Wryly, he wrapped the towel around his waist and pinched it at his side. With his free hand he opened the door. A blast of cool air made his skin prickle. Gabe was sitting on his bed eating a bar of chocolate and watching the television. He didn't seem to notice the hunter. As quietly as possible, Sam snuck around the outskirts of the room, keeping his _friendly_ friend in his sight at all times. At last, he found his duffle bag. Quickly, he snatched a pair of shorts and a T-shirt off the top and turned back to return to the bathroom.

Gabe was gaping at him. The chocolate had stopped halfway to his mouth. The hunter froze like a child caught stealing cookies from the jar. They both stared at each other for an indefinite amount of time; each man too startled to be caught that they couldn't move. The levels of awkwardness skyrocketed exponentially every second.

Sam was the first to break eye contact. Muttering something unintelligible, he made a hasty retreat to the bathroom. Closing the door again behind him he let out a long breath, and shaking off an odd feeling in his stomach. It must have been the chicken sandwich.

ooo

When he finally deemed himself decent, Sam returned to the main room like nothing had happened. The TV was off and there was a fresh pile of candy wrappers on the floor. With hardly enough light to see by, the Winchester flipped open his phone from where it had been sitting on the nightstand and used it like a flashlight.

The other man was sleeping, curled up in the middle of Sam's bed like a giant cat. The hunter chuckled softly, pulling a spare blanket out of a nearby closet and covered the former bartender with it. Satisfied with his work, he claimed Gabe's bed - the part not covered with chocolate anyways. Soon Sam drifted off to sleep, not knowing that an Archangel was watching over him.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9: What Happen with 40 Minutes of Sleep and a Chicken Sandwich

…

There were car headlights shining in from the curtained window. They cast long shadows on the walls around the room. Sam awoke to the sound of someone pounding on the door. Groaning, the Winchester checked the analog clock on the nightstand to his left. It read 2:49 AM in bright red numbers. He had been asleep for about forty minutes. He groaned a little louder.

"Mmmpf, Sammy, what's goin' on?" Gabe slurred, his head buried in Sam's pillows.

"There's someone at the door," Sam said, getting up and stretching. He made his way over to his bag, which was shoved in the darkest corner of the room and pulled out his flip knife. He carefully hid it in his shorts and then made his way over to the door.

_Thud thud thud thud, _the person continued to knock. Gabe, at this point, was on his feet and surprisingly alert.

The hunter turned the door knob, opened it just a crack, and peered out.

"Andy?" He exclaimed in shock.

"Uh, hey… Um, I don't exactly know your name."

"Why are you here?"

"Look, I'm in a bit of a hurry. Your partner called me earlier today. He said he would help me if I ever needed it. I thought that he was here."

Sam looked back at Gabe. The other man merely shrugged, a slight smirk placed upon his face. "I called him because he seemed like a nice guy. I didn't tell you because I knew that you wouldn't like it." He pushed past Sam, ignoring the "_we will talk about this later"_ look and opened the door the rest of the way. "Whacha need, Andy?"

"You said to come to you if I ran into any trouble, so, here I am. In trouble."

"Trouble?" Sam echoed. Andy looked towards the hunter, obviously uncomfortable, but continued anyway.

"Yeah, it's Tracy. I don't know where she is. She said to call her, and I did, but she didn't answer her phone. She always answers!" He was starting to get worked up. "So I stopped by her house, and the door was unlocked. She wasn't home!"

"Slow down," Gabe said, clasping the hyperventilating man on the shoulder. "We'll find her."

"We?" Andy asked. "I hope you mean me and you…" He cast a nervous glace at Sam.

"Don't worry about him," his friend replied, "Sam here wouldn't hurt a fly."

Sam nearly snorted, but he managed to stop himself at the last minute. Instead, he pulled a sympathetic look and directed it at Andy, who looked only slightly reassured. "Do you know anyone who would want to hurt her? Anyone you know acting suspicious lately?" The Winchester asked.

"Not really…"

"Overly friendly?"

"Ansem seemed a bit clingy, but that's just how he is," the man said.

"Ansem?" Gabe echoed. "That name sounds familiar… Did he go to an Areosmith concert with you once?"

Andy pulled a face. "Yeah, he did. How did you know that?"

"I saw it on their website."

"Look" the frantic man growled, "Can we just find Tracy?"

Suddenly, Sam's head erupted into pain. Vaguely, he felt himself fall heavily against the wall. There were muffled cried of "Sam!" and "Is he okay?" Then everything went dark. He hadn't passed out exactly. He could still feel the pain in his skull, but it was less immediate. Now, he saw a scene.

It was night. The air had a biting chill to the air, made worse by the wind that shook the tall oak and pine trees. There was the sound of distant rushing water. The air smelled strongly of earth, pavement after rain, and car exhaust.

There was a blonde woman, perched on the wall of a dam like a bird ready to take flight. She was crying, tears streaming down her face as she looked towards the water far below. A figure, shrouded in darkness, stood silently behind her. He didn't move to help. Sam could tell that he was smiling, even though his face was hidden.

The white sundress she wore was billowing in the wind behind her. _Just walk off the edge now. I promise it won't hurt. You can fly, remember?_ A commanding, detached voice was whispering. The girl's sobbing grew louder. She took a small step forward, and fell off the dam. The Winchester screamed at her to stop, but he couldn't hear his own voice.

The girl fell like a stone towards the dark, churning river. She waved her arms around her, trying to grab something, anything. There was nothing to seize. It just made her look even more so like a bird; a beautiful, doomed bird. The girl managed a strangled, guttural cry before she struck the water, dead almost instantly. The police would never find her remains.

The man smiled wider, and turned to climb back into his vehicle. Andy was his, and nobody else's.

The pain was ebbing away as if he had been dipped into cool water. Sam was on the floor, his eyes swimming as he looked up into Gabe's fearful face. The hunter managed a faint smile.

"I know where she is," he said, voice raw.

"Who?" Andy asked from the background. "What the Hell just happened? Should I call the hospital?" he asked, looking at Gabe like this wasn't the first time he had asked the question. Gabe didn't seem to hear him. He simply offered a helping hand to the grounded Winchester.

"Thanks," the hunter said gruffly, accepting the hand. He let himself be pulled to his feet.

"She's at the dam."

"Tracy?" Andy squeaked.

He nodded his head. "Yes, but we have to hurry. She's in trouble."

Andy needed no second prompt. He was already rushing out the door. Sam was after him next, but Gabe grabbed the fabric of his jacket and held him back. Sam nearly toppled over backwards. The shorter man was surprisingly strong for his size.

"What? We need to go. Tracy is in trouble," the Winchester insisted.

"Are you sure you are okay? You practically bit your own tongue off. We couldn't get you to stop yelling," the former bartender pried. Sam shrugged, hurrying over to his bag and discreetly taking a few Advil pills and slipping them into his pocket. His head was still throbbing violently, but now was not the time to stop and recuperate. There would be time later, once they saved Tracy.

"I'm fine," the hunter brushed him off and turned to leave, only to once again be yanked backwards.

"Oh no, I don't back off that easily, Winchester. What was that about telekinesis earlier?"

"I know telekinesis when I see it. In case you didn't know, I've practically been hunting since I was old enough to walk. I think I can recognize it when I see it."

"That's not it. I've known a few great hunters, and none of them would've jumped to that conclusion first. Not a single one."

"Well," Sam growled, stooping down so he was face to face with Gabe, "I guess I'm just the best hunter out there."

Instead of the intended intimidation Sam had been gunning for, a look of pity crossed over the other man's face. He stood up in disbelief. Pity? That was the last thing he needed. Purposefully prying the shorter man's fingers out of his jacket, the Winchester turned and left out the door.

"Oh Sammy…" Gabriel sighed. He gradually followed suit.

ooo

"You _saw_ her? In a vision?"

"Yeah."

"That's not possible!"

The trio was in the Impala, riding down a dark, winding, cracked asphalt road towards where Andy insisted the dam was located. Sam was driving, Andy was sitting shotgun (having gotten to the vehicle first) and Gabe was quiet in the backseat. He had been quiet ever since the Winchester had explained what he had seen, the censored version of course.

"Any less impossible than being able to make people do whatever you want just by telling them to?"

The man hesitated, before shrugging in defeat. "Has that happened to you before?"

Sam nodded, "Once. I think it might have happened more, but I had always assumed that they were just nightmares. My job isn't exactly easy."

"I didn't think being a policeman was _that_ crazy. I doubt most police mistake constant dreams about people dying _just_ nightmares. Are you seeing a therapist?"

Sam grimaced. "I'm not with the police."

Andy looked at the hunter in shock. "But, you _said_-"

"I know what I said."

"Then who _are_ you?"

He sighed. "I'm a hunter. I've been traveling around, tracking things that would make your toes curl. Monsters, evil things, you name it."

"Like… Buffy? The vampire slayer?"

Gabe snorted from behind them.

"Sort of… yeah." Sam chucked.

"There," the passenger pointed ahead of them and into the gloom. "Up ahead. It's the dam. I think I can see another car from here…"

The hunter pulled the Impala off to the side of the road and parked her under a tall tree. From the road, no one would ever see it. The three men climbed out of the machine and converged in the shadow of the woods. Sam dug through the trunk and pulled out some rope and handed it to Gabriel. He handed Andy a plastic bag with something inside of it. The Winchester took a revolver for himself.

"Remember the plan?" he asked the other two. Each in return nodded their affirmation. "Good. Let's go. Good luck."

They split up; Gabe heading for a nearby hill, Andy behind Sam.

Ansem's car was quiet. There was nothing to suggest anything out of the ordinary. The hunter knew different. While Andy was hiding himself, Sam crept around to the driver's side of the car. He peered inside slowly, making sure that there was minimal chance of being spotted. Sure enough, dark shapes moved inside; two figures. The Winchester's lips drew into a tight line. He stood up, braced himself, and smashed the window with the strong point of his elbow.

There was the sound of a girl screaming. He looked inside. The blonde girl from his vision was clambering against the other side of the car. A man, Ansem, was within his immediate vicinity, obviously shocked at the new development. The hunter grabbed him and pulled him out of the shattered window. He felt shards of glass scrape along the calloused skin of his wrist. He ignored it.

Ansem managed to wrench himself out of Sam's grip. "Stop attacking me," he hissed, clearly expecting Sam to be overcome by some weird desire to comply.

Instead of acting upon the former, the Winchester lunged at him, pulling out his flip knife from his pocket and stabbing out at Ansem. Ansem, in turn, stumbled backwards, surprised at the sudden onslaught of attacks, and the fact that his power didn't seem to work on the Winchester. Secretly, however, Sam was almost as stunned as Ansem, but he would worry about his newfound immunity later.

"Stop it!" the other man yelled, dodging the hunter's knife left and right. Slowly, Ansem began to retreat towards the woods. "Why aren't you listening?" he cried.

The Winchester didn't bother to reply.

Soon, Ansem was stumbling over underbrush and twigs on the forest floor. Sam dove forward, jutting the knife out in front of him and aiming for Ansem's stomach. As he had hoped would happen, the man fell backwards and right into position. Andy leapt out from behind a large, knotted oak tree and tackled his friend to the dirt. Molding leaves and dry dust exploded around the wrestling pair, nearly obscuring them for a split second. A bird overhead gave an angry screech and flew off. Ansem let out a startled cry. Andy took advantage of the moment and slapped a heavy-duty strip of duct tape over his mouth.

Gabe ran onto the scene, and trailing behind him was the length of rope. Soon, Ansem was tied and disabled on the ground, glaring up at Sam and Gabe with hatred. He seemed to avoid Andy's gaze.

"That was easier than I thought it was going to be," Gabe commented.

Sam nodded absently and glanced at Andy. He looked green. "Are you okay, Andy?" Sam questioned.

The man shook his head no. His eyes never left Ansem, who have seemed to have given up fighting and was staring very intently on seemingly nothing. Ansem rested his head on the dirt and leaves and rocks on the forest floor. He continued to look into the distance, in the general direction of the dam. Suddenly, a thought struck Sam.

"Hey, Andy, you can't command people to do things without speaking to them directly, right?" The Winchester glimpsed Andy furtively. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Ansem flinch at his words. Something dropped in his stomach. He felt at his belt loop where he had stuck his revolver. It was gone.

As soon as he realized this, the hunter barely had any time to react when a silently sobbing Tracy appeared, pointing the missing gun at Sam and firing. He jumped out of the way, hoping that he was in time. He wasn't. The bullet punched through his shoulder, lodging itself in the joint connecting his upper arm to his torso. Pain laced through his body like lava. Grunting, Sam landed on his side in a pile of leaves. He scrambled out of the way just as another shot rang out. It struck where he had just fallen, throwing up leaf particles into the air.

"Tracy!" Andy yelled from somewhere. Sam didn't have time to look; he was busy taking shelter behind a beech tree.

He scanned his surroundings for a something, anything, he could use to his advantage. The best he could find was a reasonably large branch. He heaved up the stick. He peered around the tree trunk. Tracy was in the center of the clearing, untying Ansem. Gabe was bent over an unconscious Andy. The blonde girl must have struck out at him.

Tracy broke Ansem's bonds. He stood up and ripped the duct tape from his mouth, and then stretched languidly, as if he wasn't essentially in the middle of a warzone. "Good girl," he told her, wiping a tear from her eye, smudging her face with dust. She didn't make a sound.

"Give me the gun," he asked her. She reluctantly handed it over to him without hesitation. "Who are you two?" Ansem inquired, glancing at Gabe and where Sam was hiding. He turned to the former bartender and the comatose Andy. "Tell me."

Gabe frowned, but answered. "My friend's name is Luke. My name is Michael. We're police. There was an anonymous tip that led us here."

Ansem nodded, seemingly pleased with the answer. "Why did you attack me and my girlfriend?"

Andy chose that exact moment to return to consciousness. Ansem's head snapped towards the felled man. Sam took advantage of the momentary distraction and snuck towards another tree. He was now in a perfect ambush position. His new hiding place was directly behind the psychic.

"Tracy's not your girlfriend!" Andy insisted groggily.

"Andy man, are you okay? I didn't mean for Tracy to hit you that hard. She'll pay for that later. I promise."

"Don't you dare hurt her. Let her go."

"See, I can't do that. She was getting too close to you. She was getting between us."

"What are you talking about? We are friends!" Andy insisted, trying to get to his feet. Gabe helped him up.

Ansem laughed bitterly. "No we're not! We are not friends. We're brothers!"

"Brothers?" Andy spluttered. "No. We aren't. We can't be."

The psychic took a few steps forward. "That's the beauty of it! We _can_ be!"

"Fine, say that we are. When you find out you have a brother, you call him up for a beer. You don't go around killing his friends!"

"I wish it had been that simple. He told me-" Ansem paused to swallow nervously. From the darkness of the trees, Sam listened and waited for an opportunity. His fingers tightened around the branch. "He told me I wasn't allowed."

Andy looked at his brother cautiously. "Who told you you weren't allowed? Allowed to do what?"

Sam took a quiet step forward, preparing to swing out at Ansem's head. "The yellow eyed man wouldn't let me see you." The Winchester stopped in his tracks. His thoughts were suddenly elsewhere.

ooo

He was only fifteen. They were in a warm town in the middle of summer, somewhere in central Colorado. The motel was covered in a week's worth of trash and research. John wouldn't let any of the housekeeping in to clean the place. Bright sunlight shined in from the windows, lighting up the dust particles in the air. It smelled of dried sweat, microwavable dinners and stale air.

John was pouring over a book more intent than Sam had seen him in a long while.

"Dad, can I help?" the fifteen year old hunter asked his father, stretching out like a massive cat on one of the twin beds.

John didn't answer. He didn't seem to hear his son speak at all.

The Winchester sighed, getting onto his feet and moving to peer over his dad's shoulder. The book was old. Up in the corner, Sam could see that his Uncle Bobby had inscribed his own name to identify whose property the book was. John's hand obscured most of the rest of the text, save for one paragraph.

_There are those who believe that demons exist. Some believe in Samhain, some believe in Crowley. There are those who even believe that Lucifer himself transformed into a demon when he was cast out from Heaven. But, this chapter is dedicated to the demon Azazel; the demon with yellow eyes. Azazel was a loyal servant to the devil himself. He often is depicted…_

"What are you doing, Sam?"

The young hunter's eyes snapped up from the reading. John was looking at him with a big frown plastered on his face. Sam looked down at the ground, sheepish.

"I wanted to help you research."

His father sighed. "Sorry Sam. You would just get in the way. Why don't you go down the street and buy yourself a candy bar or something?"

The Winchester nodded glumly. He left the room, grabbing some change from John's coat pocket and the spare key to the room. Before he left, Sam glanced back at his dad, who was staring intently at his book again.

The sun outside was bright and warm. Birds were chirping in the pine trees. Bees hummed lazily as they traversed from flower to flower. A squirrel was nibbling on the edge of a dandelion, its tail twitching involuntarily every couple seconds or so. The air smelled clean and fresh. There was a cool breeze flowing down from the mountains around him.

Sam was so absorbed in his surroundings, that he didn't notice the man until it was too late. The young hunter ran straight into him, grunting, and falling on his butt. Apologies were already falling from his tongue in a blubbering stream of incomprehensible noises.

"I'm so sorry, sir! I wasn't looking where I was going. I hope I haven't made you drop anything…" the Winchester looked up to see who exactly it was that he had run into. The man was tall. He had sandy brown hair and a deeply lined face. The man smelled of dust and faintly of eggs. His eyes looked yellow in the sunlight. But, when he blinked, the effect was gone.

"That's quite alright, young man," he smiled, offering a hand to Sam. Sam took it lightly, allowing himself to be hauled onto his feet. "If you'll excuse me, I'm late for a… appointment." With that having been said, the sandy-haired man walked away.

The candy bar didn't taste as good as it should have.

ooo

Sam's head snapped to attention. He had wasted too much time mulling over past experiences. Luckily, Ansem was still speaking.

"He said that I was special, he told me that I had been chosen!"

Andy was getting frustrated and jittery. Tracy was still crying. Her face was red and raw. The Winchester didn't hesitate a moment longer. He swung the branch as hard as he could at the psychic's head.

_Thunk!_

The impact rang throughout the cold, dark, quiet forest. Ansem fell heavily to the ground. Nobody moved.

Tracy was the first to react. She let out a choppy breath and retreated quickly through the forest, probably back to the dam. Andy reacted next, following her like an unsure puppy. Sam continued to stare at Ansem.

"Sam?" a voice asked.

"Why do you think I was able to resist Andy and his powers?" the hunter asked, still staring at the body.

"I don't know," Gabe said.

"Why were _you_ able to resist him?"

The bartender paused this time. "I don't know," he mumbled, frowning.

It would be a while before either of them said a word again.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10: Life Lessons in the Croatoan Virus

ooo

The hallway was dark, there was no one around. It smelled of cleaning agents and varnish. One of the lights overhead had gone out. The only light was coming in from the overcast sky through a skylight. Sam was standing outside a locked door, loading his favorite handgun. Brushing off a speck of dirt on the shiny, silver casting, the hunter unlocked the wooden door in front of him. It opened silently. His face was hard and blank as he entered the room.

A sandy-haired man was sitting tied to a chair in the center of the space. A large black man and a blonde woman were shifting uneasily in the corner of the room, not moving to assist. The bound boy couldn't have been more than twenty-five years old. He looked harried and sickly. He looked up at the Winchester, eyes swimming. Suddenly, he flinched, as if remembering where he was.

"No, no, no, no. You're not gonna… I swear! It isn't in me!" He cried, struggles beginning anew.

"Oh God, we're all going to die," the woman said, running a nervous hand through her hair. It was trembling.

"Are you sure it's in him?" the stoic black man asked, frown in place. He stood immovably, arms crossed and shoulders tense.

Sam shrugged. "We can't take the chance. Trust me; I've been around enough to know." He cocked the gun as if to support his point.

The sandy-haired man jolted. "No, no! Stop it! Ask her, ask the doctor! It's not in me!"

Sam frowned, glancing at the blonde girl. She looked on the verge of a breakdown. Shaking her head in small, frantic trembles, she said "I… just…" her voice broke, "I can't tell." She shifted her gaze to the wall. It stayed there.

The Winchester's eyes moved slowly from her to the young man.

"No. Please, don't… Don't." His body was shaking in quiet sobs.

Sam's face remained impassive. Only a single twitch below his eye even detailed a thought process of any kind. To those who knew him, only they would know that he was debating. Eventually, the hunter raised the gun and clicked the safety, pointing it towards the crying boy. His whole body relaxed involuntarily, getting ready to recover from the shock of backfire. Meanwhile, the hostage was chanting a long stream of words, ranging from "It's not in me" to "Please, I swear".

"I've got no choice," he whispered just loud enough for everyone to hear.

The man had just enough time to whimper "don't" before he pulled the trigger.

ooo

Sam gasped and jumped into a sitting position, accidentally flinging himself out of the crappy motel bed and landing on the floor. The boards under the shitty carpet creaked in protest. Tons and tons of blankets came after, all piling on top of him, one after another; until he looked like a giant ice-cream sundae. He grunted, pushing them all off of him and gasped for breath. He was still shaken from his dream.

He felt sore, as if the hunter had spent the whole night beating up a polar bear instead of sleeping. Trying to calm himself down, he examined his surroundings for Gabe. The only evidence of the former bartender he could find was the crumpled bed right next to his. He sighed, pushing himself onto his feet.

Just as the Winchester had set himself down heavily into a chair across the room, the motel door swung open, revealing his only friend. "Hey, kiddo! Just went out to get some breakfast… hey, are you okay?"

He didn't answer, just continued breathing and sent him a "what the Hell is happening to me" look. Immediately, the other man dropped the food onto the table and rushed over to Sam. "Just take a few deep breaths," he insisted. Sam did just that.

"Now," Gabe said sternly, "What happened?"

"Another vision."

Gabe froze for a split second then nodded. Sam did not even notice.

"River Grove, Oregon. We need to go," the hunter growled, trying to struggle to his feet.

"Wow there Sasquatch. Slow down! You just had a traumatic experience. Give it a few minutes!"

"No," Sam stated firmly. "We need to go."

Gabriel sighed, annoyed. He could see there was no changing the Winchester's mind about this. Sam could be so pig-headed sometimes. "Fine. But on one condition. Tell me exactly what happened in your premonition."

The hunter gave him a look. "I don't _think _I need to remind you that I'm in charge here, and you are only tagging along because I let you."

"Don't I get a few trust points here? We've been roaming from state to state and I haven't done _anything_ to screw you over. Can't _I_ get a hell yeah every once and a while? Sheesh, I'm looking out for your well-being! Someone needs to."

It was Sam's turn to sigh. What would be the harm? "Fine."

Gabe looked pleased with himself. "Good."

"I was loading my favorite gun in a hallway in front of a locked door. Once I finished, I unlocked the door and went inside. There was a guy tied to a chair. He looked a little beat up. On the wall was a "welcome to Crater Lake" sign like you see in the movies. There were two other people in the room, a big African American, and a blonde woman. I think the woman was a doctor. Anyways, once the man tied to the chair noticed me, he started yelling "it's not in me! I promise!" and-"

"What wasn't in him?" Gabe asked.

"He didn't say."

Gabe's face dropped, like he had been expecting that answer. "Go on."

"There's not much more to say. The man told me to ask the doctor if "it" was in him, but she didn't know. So, I…" he cleared his voice. "I shot him. It was a clean wound to the head. He couldn't have survived."

The former bartender looked grave. After a few moments of contemplative silence, he added "I think you should go to Oregon."

"That's what I was trying to tell- Wait, what do you mean "you"?" The hunter asked warily.

The other man gave him a wry smile. "I can't go with you on this little mission. Not this time, at least. I'll be back afterwards."

Sam frowned, considering him. "Why?"

"Isn't that the golden question?"

"How about you stop _evading _my question?"

Gabe patted Sam on the back fondly. "I'm going to go call in a few favors and see if I can find out what the heck is wrong with you," he quipped, giving the hunter a light smack on the head, less fondly. He ignored the cry of protest. "Stop bothering me."

Despite the situation, Sam laughed. "I'll still be able to get a hold of you, right?"

Not answering, the shorter man retreated to the table and tossed the Winchester the bag of breakfast, which smelled suspiciously like pancakes. "I'll see you later, Sam."

The Winchester looked at him suspiciously. "You're leaving? Now?"

"Well, duh. You were about to leave, so I might as well, too."

The hunter attempted to cover his confusion, and was only moderately successful. "How are you going to get around? I'm taking the Impala; not that I'd give her to you in the first place."

"It's February! The month of love. Who wouldn't want to give this sweet ass a ride?" With that having said Gabe strutted out of the room and was gone, leaving the chuckling hunter to his own devises.

ooo

It was light by the time Sam had packed everything up and checked out of the motel. Gabe had seemingly completely vanished. The Winchester tried not to feel concerned. He would soon have enough on his plate to worry about. Soon, the engine was running and the hunter was off; down the road, o'er the hills and through the woods to Oregon. Slowly, the terrain became more and more mountainous. Within two hours, he passed the giant "Welcome to Oregon" sign.

Despite it being overcast, River Grove was beautiful. Pine trees grew tall from the grass on the side of the road. Heather sprung up from between their roots and waved in the wind. The wind, in turn, carried the heavy scent of a recent thunderstorm. Sam parked the Impala next to a busy line of stores and buildings. He sat back in the seat, relaxing and taking in his surroundings.

There was a man preparing a fishing rod. He was sitting on the porch of an old wooden building. Sam was struck with sudden realization. He was the man from his vision. Sam shoved the keys of the Impala into his pocket and hopped out, shutting the door behind him. The hunter made a beeline for the other man. He didn't seem to notice the Winchester until he was nearly upon him.

"Hello," Sam called out cheerfully.

"Mornin'," he replied. "Can I help you?"

"Yes, you can. My name is Frank Beard and I am a U.S. martial."

"What's this about?" he asked cautiously, setting down his fishing rod on the wood table next to him.

"I'm looking for a young man… Early twenties, a thin scar below his hairline." Sam indicated where with one finger.

"What did he do?" the man inquired, narrowing his eyes suspiciously at the Winchester.

"Nothing," Sam stated, and the man relaxed slightly. "I'm actually looking for someone else, and I think this man can help me. He's not in any trouble," the hunter insisted. Sam's eyes flitted to the man's bare wrist. There, inked in black, was a tattoo of a bulldog in a hat with two rifles. The Winchester's mouth twitched up into a smile. He had seen a tattoo like that before. His eyes returned to the man, who was considering him coolly.

"Do you know where he is, master sergeant?" Sam paused to take in the smirk forming on the other man's face before continuing. "My dad was in the corps. He was a corporal."

"What company?" he asked.

"Echo-2-1."

He smiled, nodding his head slightly. "Duane Tanner's got a scar like that. But I know him. Good kid; keeps his nose clean."

"I'm sure he does," Sam said. "He's not in any trouble. Do you know where he lives?"

The man looked less happy at the direction of the conversation, but answered anyways. "With his family, up Aspen Way." He motioned with a wave of his hand.

Sam nodded, giving him a small smile. "Thank you. I'll get out of your way now." He turned and paced back to the black vehicle, the sergeant looking after him uneasily.

While he was returning back to the Impala, he passed a seemingly innocuous telephone pole, carved with the single work "croatoan". Sam stopped to inspect it further. Memories jumped forward without command. He remembered reading books on Roanoke and the lost colony. Roanoke was one of the first English colonies in America in the late 1500s. The colonists mysteriously disappeared, leaving behind only the word "croatoan" carved into a tree. Many people came up with theories, but nobody knew what really happened.

Something dropped in Sam's stomach. Whatever was going on in this town, it wasn't good. A thought struck Sam. He shouldn't be working this case alone. Pulling out his cell phone, he dialed up Gabe's number. Whatever "contacts" he was pulling in could wait.

The Winchester tried calling him. A message popped up on the screen. _Cannot connect to the service database. Please try again later._ No signal. Frowning, Sam noticed a telephone booth on the corner of the road. Hurrying over to it, he tried the landline. No signal. The line was dead.

He gritted his teeth. Whatever was going on, he needed to figure it out. And _fast_. He ran back to the car, started it up, and headed towards Aspen Way. Hopefully finding Duane would be the first step to finishing the hunt.

Duane's cabin was small and well kept. Tall broad-wood trees dotted the clearing. There was a tidy flowerbed, sporting only a few purple crocuses peering out through the saturated ground. Sam walked up to the door and knocked loudly. A few seconds later, a young man with dark brown hair opened the door.

"Yeah?" he asked, looking at the Winchester expectantly.

Sam, in turn, pulled out his martial badge. "Hello. I'm looking for Duane Tanner. I was told that he lives here."

"He's my brother," the boy said, casually. The Winchester noted this as odd.

"May I speak to him?"

"He isn't here right now." The boy crossed his arms defensively.

Sam nodded, "Alright, do you know where he is?"

"Yeah," the boy said, nodding his head, "He's on a fishing trip up by Roslyn Lake."

"Are your parents' home?"

"Yeah, they're inside."

An older man's voice sounded from inside the cabin, perfectly timed. "Jake? Who is it?" Soon after the voice, a balding man approached the door, looking perplexed.

"I am a U.S. martial, sir," Sam assured the man, flashing his badge once again. "I'm looking for your son. He's not in any trouble. I need to ask him a few routine questions. Nothing serious. When is he due back from his trip?"

"I'm not sure," he frowned. Jake shifted uncomfortably by his side.

"Maybe your wife knows?" Sam prompted.

"Well, I don't know," he spluttered anxiously. "She's not here right now," the father claimed.

"You're son says that she is," the hunter countered. He looked back towards Jake, just barely catching the falling expression on his face before it was masked.

"Did I?" Jake said, perplexed. "She is out getting groceries." He smiled kindly.

Sam nodded. "Of course. I will check in on you later for Duane. Thank you for your time."

The two men looked relieved. "It was no problem. Have a nice day." The door shut and the Winchester was alone.

He wasn't an idiot to take them for their word. He waited a few moments before slipping around to the back of the cabin. Luckily there was a large, uncovered window that he could peer through. What he saw wasn't what he was expecting.

An older, blonde woman was tied and gagged to a chair in the center of the room, probably Mrs. Tanner. The two men he had just been speaking to were circling the sobbing woman like human vultures. He could barely make out what they were saying.

"… not gonna hurt, mom. I promise," the boy was saying. He stepped away from her, pulling back the sleeve of his shirt. The older man approached him with a kitchen knife, slitting Jake's wrist. Blood pooled out from the wound and onto the white carpet. Jake moved and let the blood drop onto an open wound on Mrs. Tanner's shoulder.

In a record-breaking time, Sam had his gun cocked. He quickly smashed open the window, jumping inside. "Get away from her!" he yelled, pointing the muzzle of the pistol towards Jake and his father. The woman continued sobbing.

Suddenly, Mr. Tanner rushed him, yelling and brandishing the knife in his hand. Sam fired, striking the man in the stomach. He continued firing. His attacker backed off, but didn't appear at all effected by the gunshot wounds. Sam hesitated, unsure. Seizing the moment, the son and father ran away, leaping out the window he had just entered. The hunter rushed after them, firing a few more bullets after them, but the pair disappeared into the woods.

The bound woman kept crying, not looking at her rescuer.

"I'm sorry," he told her awkwardly. She only nodded, sniffling. Soon she was untied. Sam dressed her wound and left.

ooo

Gabriel hadn't really left to collect his contacts or whatever bullshit lie he had spewed. He was still watching over the Winchester, albeit invisibly. So far, Sam was doing well for himself. He had picked up on all of the clues the demons had left lying around, and was slowly piecing together what was happening.

Contrary to popular opinion, the Archangel hadn't ditched Sam just to stalk him and watch the hunter kill things with a sadistic glee. No. This was more of a "final test" sort of situation. Gabriel still wasn't yet sure if Sam was Lucifer's vessel. If the hunter proved to be immune to the Croatoan virus, then he could be sure. If by any chance he turned out to be invulnerable, then; bingo! He had found his big brother's super vessel. If Sam contracted the disease, then he was not Lucifer's personal property and the trickster would resume search for the true vessel of Satan.

Gabriel couldn't decide if he wanted Sam to pass his little test or not. Honestly, he was sick of looking for the vessels. But, unfortunately, there aren't a crap ton of ways to go about stopping the dad-damn apocalypse. If he found Lucifer's vessel, he could keep him from starting the whole process of the end of the world. But, on the other hand, he had come to sort of like the ridiculously tall hunter. He was smart, funny when he let himself be, and –if Gabriel is honest, which he isn't- insanely hot.

The trickster watched as Sam exited the cabin and climb morosely into the Impala. A twinge of guilt settled over the currently invisible being. The Archangel angrily brushed it aside. Oh no, he hadn't felt guilt in a _very_ long time. No way in Hell was he going to start now.

_It's just until the hunt is over,_ he thought to himself. _Then I'll go back to him._ He froze, realizing he sounded like a despondent lover. Quietly berating himself, he watched the hunter drive away in that black monstrosity of a car. He debated for a split second or not to turn it bright orange. He decided against it.

The Pagan god sighed, snapping a king-sized chocolate bar into existence and then collapsed onto the grass. It was going to be a long day.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11: The Walking Dead

ooo

The ride back to town started off rather uneventfully. Sam figured that he would find a secluded place to leave the Impala and then gear up to track Jake and his father down. The engine rumbled under the Winchester, roaring as the pair of them turned a wooded corner. Through the thin mist he could see a broken down car in the middle of the road. Sam frowned, pulling to a stop behind it.

The driver's door creaked as he opened and closed it. Sam shoved a gun into the hem of his jeans for safe measure. Stepping out, the hunter approached the stopped vehicle. Carefully, Sam rounded around the car. The windows were shattered. The felt interior was saturated with blood and broken glass. An abandoned baby car seat was situated in the back seat, also covered in thick, cold, red. The Winchester let out a sharp exhale of breath and stepped back from the scene. He could see no signs of a struggle, or anything suggesting where the attackers or victims had gone.

What the Hell was going on in this town?

He retreated to the silent Impala and revved up the engine, taking off down the road and away from town. He would track down Duane. It was his best lead.

The Winchester was so engrossed in his thoughts that he nearly ran straight through the human blockade lining the road. Sam slammed the breaks, stopping less than twenty feet from killing the people standing directly in front of him.

Each individual was armed with a shotgun. They were lounging serenely, blocking his way. Suddenly, someone pounded on the roof of the car. An unshaven, skinny man appeared in the open window, smiling apathetically. "Sorry, road's closed."

Sam's hand dropped towards the handgun digging into the small of his back. He considered the man. "I see. Why is it closed?"

"Quarantine."

"Quarantine?" Sam exclaimed, pretending to be surprised and concerned. His brow furrowed, as if he was afraid. "What is it?"

"Dunno," he said, shifting to get a better look at the Winchester. "Something's going around out there."

"Who told you that?"

"County sheriff. He called. Say, why don't you get out of the car and we'll talk a little?"

Well, that certainly crossed the line between deeply suspicious and obviously malevolent. Sam wasted no time slamming on the gas and backing away from the crowd. Somehow, the man kept a hold on the open window of the car and started fumbling to grab the hunter's jacket. The Winchester yanked out his gun and whacked the side of the man's head with the metal handle. He then lost his grip and fell to the ground, spent.

The Impala whirled around expertly, righting itself just in enough time to miss the oncoming bullets firing from poorly-aimed shotguns. Sam let out a cold laugh and gunned it, losing everyone in his trails of dust and leaves.

Sam didn't stop driving, nor did he slow down until the town was within his sight. Only then did he allow the car some leeway. He let out a shaky sigh, placing the gun back under his belt and shirt.

"Stop the goddamn car!" Someone shouted from ahead.

The hunter slammed on the breaks, letting out a string of swears. In front of him was yet another human blockade. This time, however, it was singular. The sergeant from earlier was standing in his way, aiming a rifle at the windshield of the vehicle. Sam had no doubt in his mind that this time, the bullets would miss.

"Get out of the car!" He commanded as soon as Sam had stopped completely. Seeing no alternative, the hunter complied. It was a good thing the Winchester had hidden his handgun once more.

As soon as he was clear of the door however, the hunter whipped out his handgun and pointed it down the muzzle of the other. "Put it down," he snarled coldly.

"You put it down!"

"I haven't missed a standing target yet. So I suggest you put. It. Down," the Winchester threatened coolly.

"Are you one of them?" The sergeant asked fiercely.

"One of who?"

"One of the ones who have gone insane! Where have you been?"

"Trying to figure out what's going on."

"You could be lying."

"Are _you_ one of them?"

"No," he exclaimed.

"_You_ could be lying," the Winchester replied, not lowering his gun. The other man did not lower his either.

They stood like that for about another minute. Just when Sam was about to say something, a low roar could be heard from down the road. "Shit! We need to go, they're coming!" the Winchester called, loading himself back into the Impala. "Get in!"

"Why should I trust you?"

From around the corner, a large group of people were running, all waving guns over their heads and firing into the air. It was a scene out of a crappy Hollywood movie. Sam looked over at the sergeant in just enough time to practically see the man's eyes practically bulge out of his head before he hurried over to the passenger side of the car and jostle inside. "We don't have all day," he told the hunter gruffly. Sam needed no further prompting.

"Where should we go?" the Winchester asked the other man.

"I'd say the hospital. Dr. Lee will have a place for us."

"Whatever you say," Sam grunted, throwing the Impala into gear and squealing down the road at forty miles an hour. "Where is it?"

The sergeant yelled out directions while frantically waving at the Winchester to go faster. The mob of bloodthirsty people was growing exponentially by the second. They appeared from alleyways, behind buildings, and some even appeared from windows on the buildings surrounding them. Adrenalin pumping, the hunter threw all his expertise into trying to lose the crowd.

"Take that right! The _right_!" The Sarge was yelling and pointing a finger towards a road they were nearly on top of. Sam flipped the steering wheel as fast as he could. The pair could feel a tire lift from the ground as they took the corner, running over the edge of the sidewalk slightly. The Impala jostled back onto all four wheels. The Winchester looked through the read-view mirror, seeing nothing but skid marks and asphalt.

"Hey, kid?" the other man asked.

"Yeah?"

"Turn off your blinker," he sighed, exasperated.

ooo

They arrived at the hospital without further incident. Sam pulled the slick, black, battle-scarred car into the small employee parking garage, as directed by his new acquaintance. The Winchester rummaged through his trunk, pulling out John's journal, a container of salt, an iron and silver knife, and many other odds and ends. Shoving them into his industrial-strength backpack, the two men snuck around the front of the building, picked the lock to the front door, and stepped inside.

The interior was cool, the linoleum flooring shone dully in the artificial light. A worn wooden desk stood sentential over the doorway. Papers littered the ground. It was obvious that someone was in a hurry.

"Put your hands where I can see them!" A woman's voice called alarmingly from the left. Sam spun, hand retracting to where he had hidden his gun, to see a blonde woman baring a dangerously large needle in one hand like a knife. The other clutched a stack of papers. She was the woman from Sam's dream.

The sergeant was the first to speak. "Dr. Lee, it's only me and my… friend." The hesitation in his voice was hardly even noticeable.

"My name is Sam," the hunter threw his two cents in. As casually as he could manage, he relaxed his tense posture while still maintaining eye contact with the frightened doctor.

Not surprisingly, she didn't lower the needle. "Whatever is going on outside, you two could be a part of it."

The Winchester commended her insight. "We won't hurt you. We haven't gotten caught up in whatever is happening outside. I promise. Right now, we have bigger problems."

His new partner looked at Dr. Lee carefully. "You can keep the needle if it makes you feel better."

The doctor shifted her gaze between the two. "Are you armed?"

They both replied at the same time. "No."

Finally, she lowered her makeshift weapon. "Fine. I _am_ keeping the needle on me, though."

ooo

Even for all his Archangel Powers, Gabriel sucked at keeping his patience. There were few things he was worse at. One of those things was letting ice-cream melt. He was pretty sure that he would start WWIII over that kind of crap. Inexcusable.

The trickster watched as Sam and his new buddy –whom he didn't like- holed up in a small hospital. Somehow the army of diseased townspeople had lost Sam during their impromptu car chase. _How_ you can lose that loud monstrosity of a car was beyond him. They were currently searching the area for them, starting with the woods. What idiots.

At this point, less than a day into the mission, Gabriel was seriously debating on simply magically showing up at the hospital's front door and pointing the clueless bunch in the right direction. Sam was no closer to figuring out the true identity of the Croats than he was at the beginning.

There was only one reason he didn't do just that. If he wasn't careful, he would get the young hunter killed. Too much interference with the demon's plan would bring unwanted attention. Unwanted attention brought more unwanted attention. Then, _bam_. Before you know it, the whole Host of Heaven would be breathing down his neck and taking the hulking moose of a Winchester away from him.

Admittedly, he'd rather his ice-cream melt before that happened.

Call the trickster what you want, but you can't call him stupid. Just the right amount of intervention would give him all the answered he needed.

So, he snapped his fingers and watched his ingenious plan come into action.

ooo

Sam had been checking to see if all the doors were locked when suddenly a rock smashed loudly through the window above him. The gun was out of his jeans and loaded within the second, and pointed carefully at where the intrusion had come from. Not moments later, a head shoved its way through the shards of glass and into the room. It was Mrs. Tanner.

She pulled herself through the window, and then fell onto the floor with a heavy _thud_.

"Mrs. Tanner?" Sam asked, slightly shell-shocked.

She only groaned brokenly in response. The Winchester stepped forward and bent down to see if she was okay. There didn't seem to be any major injuries. Only the small open wound from earlier stood out red against her clothes, located on her shoulder. "I'm going to go get you some help," he told her, reaching out and touching her shoulder lightly. The effect was instantaneous.

The woman was on her feet in an instant, lurching forward and grabbing for the Winchester's throat. Sam barely had time to dodge when a well-aimed kick to his groin sent his head spiraling. Instead of going down like a normal human, he was a good hunter and clambered for his gun.

Mrs. Tanner on the other hand had somehow expected this movement. She knocked the weapon away before he could get a good grip. The hunter growled, instead, going for his trusty flip knife. It had never failed him before.

The rabid woman snarled, somehow getting a hold of the previously dropped gun. She fired it smoothly, and the bullet grazed his arm before he could get completely out of the way. He grunted, lashing out with his knife. He managed to get a long gash on her shoulder. Unperturbed, she kicked for his groin again. This time, he was prepared and blocked easily. But, Mrs. Tanner was quick and agile. She rammed the butt of the handgun against him temple, knocking the Winchester to the side. He stumbled and she took advantage of his momentary weakness.

What she did, however, was shocking.

Instead of going for the kill, she was suddenly on top of him. Struggling violently, Sam barely noticed the blood from her shoulder wound leech into his bullet wound. Sam struck her across the forehead with the sharp end of his knife. She screeched, falling backwards and onto the floor. He leapt to his feet and staggered over to where the woman was grounded, aiming a firm kick to her head. It wasn't long after that she turned unconscious.

Spitting blood onto the floor, the hunter examined his wounds. It was now that he noticed it; the foreign blood that had spilled onto his open wound. Sam barely had time to comprehend this when two pairs of feet came running.

"What happened?" the Sarge was asking.

"She climbed in through the window," the Winchester motioned to the unconscious Tanner, "and attacked me."

"Mrs. Tanner?" Dr. Lee exclaimed in disbelief.

"Trust me, I wasn't expecting it either."

Dr. Lee nodded gravely. "I think I'll take a look at her and see if I can find anything that's wrong with her. It may have something to do with what's going on around here."

"If it doesn't then we're screwed," the sergeant muttered under his breath.

It was fifteen minutes before the doctor found anything. "Hey, come look at this," she asked Sam, who had been sitting on the stool next to the knocked-out psycho-woman. With a distrustful look, the Winchester complied, ambling his way over to the microscope.

"She had some kind of virus in her blood. It's nothing like I've ever seen. If I didn't know any better, I'd say it was… sulfur."

"Sulfur?" Sam exclaimed skeptically.

"I know it sounds crazy. If you want, you can look yourself."

The hunter nodded slowly and looked into the lens. Sure enough, an odd substance was clinging to Mrs. Tanner's cells, eating away at each and every little red circle. The Winchester pulled back and frowned, the supernatural possibilities running through his head. Vampires were the most likely solution, but the sulfur was throwing him off the trail. Then, it struck him.

Rushing over to his backpack, he pulled out John's journal. He flipped through the pages until he came across the heading he desired.

_Croatoan_

_The croatoan mystery of Roanoke Island has never been answered. For hundreds of years, people have tried to guess at the secret held by the single word, Croatoan. After days of research between jobs, I looked up the less natural possibilities. Demons seem likely. From sailor's accounts, considered fictional, there is a mention of the scent of sulfur hanging around the island before it was abandoned. I think the monsters may have started breeding some kind of disease on Roanoke. It was likely named after the demon of plague and pestilence, sometimes known as Resheph._

Of course it had to be demons. Sam had gone his whole life not knowing that the biblical monsters existed. Suddenly, after the Azazel incident, they just seemed to pop up everywhere he went, like they were following him. Why had it been so abrupt? He was obviously missing something. There was also the little premonitions thing. Something was really, _really_ wrong.

He sort of missed Gabe. The guy seemed to know everything, and he never failed to cheer Sam up in the month or so they travelled together. He almost trusted him. Sam doesn't trust anyone, not even John.

John would have stabbed the younger Winchester in the back if he believed Sam was too dangerous. It didn't matter how wrong it felt. It didn't matter that he was family. What needed to be done had to be done. The young hunter understood that. If he ever somehow went dark-side, he'd want a knife in the back too. The greater good always came first.

"I'll be back," Sam called to the surprised Dr. Lee as he ran towards the parking garage where the Impala was hidden. The book Delphine had given him was still carefully placed in the hidden compartment in the trunk. So was the salt, not that he ever actually ran out.

When he got to the garage, he noticed that someone else had beaten him. The silhouette was limping badly, leaning heavily on the walls. Its feet were dragging lazily. As it moved, a quiet, wet noise could be heard. Sam flipped on the lights.

The boy was clutching his leg, straining to staunch the bleeding to his left thigh. His face was clammy and grey and his eyes had a wild look to them. When the lights flicked on, he let out a strangled cry, arms stretching to his face to block the light. The boy stumbled and fell to one knee, bleeding onto the ground. It was Duane Tanner, from his dream.

"Help me," he whispered. And how could the Winchester refuse that?

But first things were first. Sam was a hunter, not an idiot. "Did anyone bleed on you?" he demanded.

"What?" Duane exclaimed in confusion.

"Did anyone bleed into your wound? The one on your leg?"

"No! Why would you think that?"

He was defensive. Suspicious. He tried a different tactic. "Where did you get that cut?"

"I was running away from someone and I tripped over a root. I was on a fishing trip."

It was an easy answer. Sam shifted his weight onto the other foot. Instead of questioning the poor kid further, he bent over and hoisted Duane into his arms and carried him inside. Duane seemed too shocked to make any noise other than a weak gurgle of pain. The Winchester frowned. He'd deal with the consequences later.

"Dr. Lee!" He called, heading as fast as he could towards the examination room. Duane's head lolled back onto the Winchester's shoulder as he lost consciousness. "It's Duane Tanner! He has a laceration to the thigh," the hunter explained as the blonde woman rounded the corner, eyes widening a tiny bit.

"Bring him in here and lay him down. Carefully."

He set the boy down on the stainless steel table. He looked even thinner than he did in the light of the garage. The hunter felt a twinge of guilt.

But hey- the greater good was at stake.

ooo

Dr. Lee had Duane patched up in no time. Luckily the cut missed everything major, so the kid was in the clear. As soon as this was determined, however, Sam took the liberty to tie him up to a chair in a locked room and wait outside, preparing himself. The hallway was dark, there was no one around. The Sarge and Dr. Lee had opted to keep Duane company. Each of them, once the hunter had explained the situation to them, was adamantly against the Tanner boy to be sick at all.

"You're making a mistake, that boy looks perfectly healthy to me," the sergeant had chided, placing himself between the tied-up figure and the Winchester like a body shield.

"It took his mom a few hours to turn," Sam pointed out coolly and without emotion.

"You don't even see Duane. He's good. All you can see is two more dead people if he lives."

Sam started at that. "That's not true."

"It is. I can tell. Trust me, I know. Dr. Lee and I are going to watch him."

"Fine," the hunter growled back, nonplused.

The Sarge nodded once, turned his back on the taller man, and went inside the room. Sam locked the door behind him.

It was only later that he remembered the open wound. How long had it been since he was infected? About two and a half hours. The Winchester gravely went to find the doctor. She was staring intently into her microscope, exactly where he had left her. He cleared his throat, making her jump slightly before turning to him.

"Has something happened to Duane?" She asked fretfully.

"No," Sam replied, "Not yet.

Dr. Lee relaxed a little bit. "Good. Is there something you need?"

"Yeah, actually. Can you check a sample of my blood?"

She looked thoughtful. "Why?"

Sam didn't answer. She shrugged to herself and started preparing a needle. "If you'd sit down, that would be great."

The Winchester did just that, grunting softly as the dressed bullet wound protested. If the woman noticed, she didn't say anything.

"So how is he?"

"He's been unconscious the entire time. His wound, good job taking care of that, by the way, looks good."

She nodded, shuffling through her drawers for something. Suddenly, she paused. "Who are you, exactly?"

"I've told you, my name is Sam."

Dr. Lee looked uncomfortable. "I know that. But there aren't too many people out there who can just blaze in and seem to know everything about a situation as crazy as this one is. Don't think I haven't noticed the salt in your bag, or the pictures in that old journal you carry around. You keep looking over your shoulder. And I haven't seen you throw one trusting look at any one of us. I just can't figure you out."

The hunter shifted, this time, not from the pain of the bullet. "What do you want me to tell you?"

"The truth."

The doctor seemed to find what she was looking for, pulling out a disinfectant wipe from the drawer. She retreated to where the hunter was sitting. "Pull up you shirt sleeve," she commanded. After that was done, she quickly drew a sample of his blood and was busy preparing it.

"You don't want to know the truth," Sam mumbled.

"I do."

"That's what everyone says, until I tell it to them. Sometimes, I wish I didn't know."

"Enough with the philosophy," Dr. Lee snapped abruptly. "Just tell me what is going on to everyone in this town!"

Sam sighed, running a frustrated hand through his hair. "Fine. I hunt monsters. I travel from town to town killing things. That's my entire life. That's all my life has ever been, and all it's probably ever going to be. River Grove is infected with a virus created by monsters. I don't know how to stop it, and I might be the only person who _can_ stop it. If I die, no one will get here fast enough to save you. Happy now?"

Without waiting for a response, Sam ducked out of the room and left.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12: Dodging the Latest Bullet

Sam found himself in an unfamiliar room, pouring over John's journal in search of more information on what was going on. He had a theory. The villagers on Roanoke were all infected with a kind of supernatural disease deemed the Croatoan virus. Likely, it was created by demons, hence the sulfur clinging to their blood. It spreads through open wounds, and makes the infected go insane within what seemed to be under four hours.

Which meant that he had only an hour to save the town before he was long gone as well.

Absently, Sam rubbed the dressings on his arm, where the bullet had grazed his shoulder. He wished that Gabe had been here to help him research. Maybe he'd even have known the answer to this problem off the top of his head. Ironically, the contacts his friend was pulling in would be completely moot at this point; Sam was a dead man. There would be no point in finding out what was wrong with him personally.

"…Sam?" sounded a female voice from the doorway. It was Doctor Lee, shifting uneasily and tugging at a loose string on the hem of her rumpled lab jacket. The Winchester set down the journal and looked up at her.

"Yeah?" he answered her, his voice stiff.

"It's your blood. The tests came through."

The Winchester flinched involuntarily. "And how long do I have left?"

"That's just the thing. I can't find any sign of sulfur anywhere."

"So you're saying…"

"Your blood is clean."

It was an extraordinary turn of events, an extremely lucky break. From Sam's experiences, that was almost always worse than Sam _becoming _infected. His hand clenched into a fist, and his jaw tightened; but, somewhere deep down, his soul sung.

But, why? Why wasn't he infected? First the premonitions, then the demons, then the telepathic Ansem, and now he's immune to demonic germs? The hunter's heart turned. He felt like crying out in frustration. But, now was not the time. There were more immediate problems than his newfound immunity.

The Winchester got to his feet, carefully replacing the books into his backpack and instead removing his favorite handgun. He knew what his next move was going to be.

"Go ahead of me," he told the doctor. She paled but complied, heading off down the hall to her left. The hunter followed suit a few minutes later, once he had cleaned up his research session completely.

The hallway was dark, there was no one around. It smelled of cleaning agents and varnish. One of the lights overhead had gone out. The only light was coming in from the overcast sky through a skylight. Sam made his way outside the room where Duane was tied up, loading his favorite handgun. Brushing off a speck of dirt on the shiny, silver casting, the hunter unlocked the wooden door in front of him. It opened silently. His face was hard and blank as he entered the room.

Duane was sitting tied to a chair in the center of the space. The Sarge and Doctor Lee were shifting uneasily in the corner of the room, not moving to assist. The Tanner boy looked harried and sickly. He looked up at the Winchester, eyes swimming. Suddenly, he flinched, as if remembering where he was.

"No, no, no, no. You're not gonna… I swear! It isn't in me!" He cried, struggles beginning anew.

"Oh God, we're all going to die," the doctor said, running a nervous hand through her hair. It was trembling.

"Are you sure it's in him?" the other man asked, frown in place. He stood immovably, arms crossed and shoulders tense.

Sam shrugged. "We can't take the chance. Trust me; I've been around enough to know." He cocked the gun as if to support his point.

Duane jolted. "No, no! Stop it! Ask her, ask the doctor! It's not in me!"

Sam frowned, glancing at the indicated woman. She looked on the verge of a breakdown. Shaking her head in small, frantic trembles, she said "I… just…" her voice broke, "I can't tell." Doctor Lee shifted her gaze to the wall. It stayed there.

The Winchester's eyes moved slowly from her to the young man.

"No. Please, don't… Don't." His body was shaking in quiet sobs.

Sam's face remained impassive. Only a single twitch below his eye even detailed a thought process of any kind. To those who knew him, only they would know that he was debating. Eventually, the hunter raised the gun and clicked the safety, pointing it towards the crying boy. His whole body relaxed involuntarily, getting ready to recover from the shock of backfire. Meanwhile, the hostage was chanting a long stream of words, ranging from "It's not in me" to "Please, I swear".

"I've got no choice," he whispered just loud enough for everyone to hear.

Sam's hand trembled slightly as he aimed a clean shot towards the captive's head. He remembered Bobby once telling him that it was a hunter's job to save people; regardless of the situation. This would be saving the lives of the sergeant and the doctor, wouldn't it? If the virus was in Duane, then there would be little chance of saving or curing him.

But, the hunter just didn't have it in him to shoot an innocent person. He sighed, snapping the safety back on and tucking the gun back into his pocket. "I can't," he sighed, looking to his two other companions. Doctor Lee practically sagged in relief. She rushed from the room without so much more as a sigh of respite. The Sarge looked at Sam with a new respect in his eyes.

"Let's go talk in the hallway," the other man motioned towards the door.

"What about me?" Duane asked; his voice still shaking and weak.

The hunter turned back to him, looking somewhat sympathetic. "You might still be infected with the virus. Just an hour, and then we'll let you go. You will be safer here anyways."

The two men let the boy mull over this new turn of events, and they retreated out into the hallway. The light overhead had seemed to have flickered back on. Although, the sky was still overcast; but it was a less foreboding shade of grey. The clouds weren't as pregnant with rain any longer.

"I'll admit," the sergeant was saying, "I really thought you were going to shoot him."

"So did I for a minute," Sam replied solemnly.

"I can only imagine. If there was one thing I learned over in Vietnam, it was that you always need to be on guard, and don't trust anyone. Doctor Lee was talking about how you hunt monsters…?"

The hunter just nodded his head, refusing to meet the other man's eyes for a second. "I didn't chose it; this life. It never felt right… and after a while, I just sort of forgot what it's like to be afraid. Duane didn't ask for this. He might not even be infected. But after so long, seeing monsters everywhere, I don't even try to separate the normal and supernatural anymore."

The Sarge nodded his head and clasped a big hand onto the younger's shoulder. He sighed. "I was in Vietnam during the Tet Offensive. It was the second day, and a small task force of Viet Kong had broken into the city through a wine cellar on the outskirts and mixed themselves up with the city refugees." The master sergeant was looking past Sam now. His hand had gotten tighter. "We couldn't tell who was who. If we didn't find them, there wasn't any doubt that they would kill a lot of people. I hated it, but-" he swallowed, "we decided we just couldn't let them go. So we rounded them back into the wine cellar and shot them all."

The Winchester grasped his hand over the other's. For a second, he was struck with a powerful wave of nostalgia. Dean used to do the exact same thing. It was when Sam was younger, about twelve, and both John and his big brother went off on a hunt. The younger Winchester would worry for hours, hoping they would come back safe and alive. When they finally did come home, Sam would be close to tears. John offered poor condolences, but it was always Dean that cheered him back up; usually with a crappy joke or fond hair-ruffles.

Sarge was still talking. "I'm glad you had the strength to do the right thing, Sam."

"I only hope I can _always_ do the right thing."

They were quiet. The hallways were quiet, and no sounds issued from the previously locked room. The only sound that would be heard was the wind outside and the light drizzle of rain on the roof of the building. Everything seemed to be holding its breath.

The silence broke when Doctor Lee did.

She was rushing down the corridor as fast as her legs would take her. The woman nearly crashed into the pair of men. She skidded to a stop, almost falling onto the dusty ground. "They're gone!"

The Sarge was the first to recover. "Who? What are you talking about?"

"I was looking out the window, and you wouldn't believe it! There is no one in sight!"

"I hope not," the Winchester quipped.

"That's not what I mean. There was someone out there, Sara Finnegan I think. She was scratching something into a tree with her nails. I look away for a moment and when I look back she had vanished! There was no sign of her anywhere!"

"How is that possible?" the master sergeant exclaimed, looking not-at-all discreetly at the hunter.

"I don't know. I've never come across anything like this before. This is all new to me."

"Well, if you don't know, then we're probably in trouble," the Sarge muttered under his breath. Soon the trio was rushing for the front window to peer outside. What they saw was what they expected; nothing.

"Where did they all go?" The Doctor wondered aloud. "They vanished."

_Ring. Ring. Ring._ Sam's phone buzzed in his pocket. Quickly, the hunter fished it out, nearly dropping it in the process. He held it up to his ear without even checking the caller ID. "Hello?"

"Kiddo! I've been trying to reach you for forever now! What happened? Are you alright?"

"Gabe!" Sam sighed in relief. "It's good to hear from you. I'm fine. What about you?"

"I'm okay. Why haven't you been answering? I've been calling nonstop for a while, and it keeps dropping me off at your voicemail. Where are you? What happened?"

"I'm still in River Grove. There was a problem, but I took care of it," Sam said flippantly.

"I'll be there in ten minutes," Gabe assured. In the background, a pixelated hum of an engine could be heard. He must have been driving towards the small town even before Sam called.

"Ten minutes? How long have you been driving?"

"Eh, I think it's getting up into the double digits."

"Hours?"

"No days, jackass. Yes _hours_."

Despite the recent events, the hunter let out a chuckle. "I'm just finishing up here. There is a small hospital on the main street; I'll meet you outside. We can talk later."

"Yeah, fine."

The line clicked off, so he shoved his now working phone back into his pocket. Sam took another quick look around the area. It was utterly serene. A few birds chirped from the woods across the street. The sky was a light grey colored overhang. He could see the outline of the sun behind the clouds directly overhead. The pines swayed in the cool breeze. It was unnerving. Where had everyone disappeared to?

The Winchester retreated back inside to gather his belongings. His backpack was still in the vacant room where he had left it. The Sarge and Doctor Lee were quietly conversing over Duane, who the Doctor had deemed healthy. She was tending to his leg wound again. Duane was staring at the wall emptily. He hesitated, not sure if he should go over and apologize or not, but a stern look from the woman sent him running to the garage.

The hunter returned his backpack and books to the trunk of the Impala. He stacked the books neatly in the back corner, then wrapped a strand of leather around them and tied it, to keep the tomes together and undamaged. John's journal, however, he placed carefully in the locked glove compartment in the front. Once he was done packing up, it had been only a couple minutes since the call. He switched on the car, listening to the familiar rumble of the engine below him. The Winchester drove it out of the garage and parked it in front of the hospital.

Sam sighed, sitting back in the driver's seat and running a hand through his, admittedly long, hair. So much had happened in this day alone. He hoped that Gabe would have some answers for him. The Winchester opened the creaking door and stepped out into the chilly February air. He leaned against the side of the old car, looking towards the main road and waiting.

It wasn't long before he heard the distant roaring of an alien car engine. Sam squinted, trying to make out shapes among the trees and branches of the road bend. He could barely make out a black, dust-covered, horrendously ugly station wagon. It swung around the corner, speeding its way towards where the Winchester was standing.

The car slowed to a stop on the arm of the road. Gabe popped out of the driver's seat and rushed over to the Winchester. His hair was ruffled, his jacket was dirty, and he wore the biggest smile Sam had ever seen.

"Winchester!" the man cried, launching himself at Sam and crushing him in a mid-waist bear hug. The hunter make a surprised grunting sound, arms flailing as he tried to keep his balance.

"Get off of me!" he cried, trying to pry the shorter man off of his coat.

"Sorry," the former bartender apologized, not looking sorry at all as he released his grip. Soon, however, he sobered. "I was just worried."

Sam rolled his eyes, shrugging off the condolences. "I'm fine."

"What the hell happened? You didn't pick up any of my calls."

"It's a long story."

"We've got time."

The Winchester sighed. "Fine. We can talk about it on the way out of here. Just let me tell everyone I'm leaving."

Gabe looked nonplused. "Take your sweet time," he smirked. Sam rolled his eyes, but turned his back and went inside the hospital anyways.

The Doctor and the Sarge were still sitting where they were before. Duane, however, was nowhere to be seen. Sam took a deep breath and approached the pair.

"Sam," the Sarge nodded. The woman next to him looked up from whatever she was writing and gave the Winchester a faint, mostly fake smile.

"I have to leave," he started out with the bad news, "but, my phone is working again so I'd imagine the radio is too. You can contact towns close by and have them send help."

"What are we going to tell them?" Dr. Lee asked, frowning.

"Say there were a group of armed people who came into town and rounded up most of the population and took them off into the woods; presumably to kill them. You both hid somewhere, escaping the terror" Sam imagined, scratching the back of his neck. "The police might just buy it; people only believe what they want to."

"But what _actually_ happened?" the other man asked.

"I don't know," Sam lied.

The sergeant looked stern, but tired. He seemed to accept his statement. After all, people only believe what they want to believe.

"You'll all be okay," the hunter told them. He held out his hand to the sergeant, who shook it. He did the same to the doctor, who only gave him a look before he retracted his arm. "Goodbye, and good luck."

Sam left out the front entrance, the wooden door slamming shut behind him with a certain finality about it. Gabe was sitting shotgun in the Impala already, looking at something on his cell phone. The Winchester tugged his jacket on a little tighter and hurried to the opposing seat. He flipped on the engine and pulled out the River Grove, this time with no armed human blockade.

"I'm only asking one more time," Gabe said, glaring at the hunter, "What happened while I was gone?"

"Do you want all the details?"

"The SparkNotes version would be nicer, but don't leave anything important out."

The Winchester sighed. "There was some kind of virus going around the town. The people who had it went crazy and tried to infect other people. It seemed to be passed on through open wounds. An sick person would have to cut themselves and have their blood come in contact with the victim…"

"It sounds like there is a 'but' in there."

Sam grimaced. "There is. It takes the disease about four hours before it actually manifests. Mrs. Tanner's blood came in contact with a new bullet wound on my shoulder. I was infected."

Gabe's voice was tightly wrung. "'Was'? Did they find a cure?"

"No, not exactly…" He trailed off, uncomfortable. It wasn't easy admitting there was something wrong with him. Well, _another_ flaw. He didn't ask for this.

Sam wasn't looking directly at the former bartender, but he didn't need to in order to know that his friend was having a hard time with this. For what reason, he had no idea.

"Then what?"

"The disease didn't affect me. I'm immune," he choked out.

Gabriel knew, at that exact moment, two things. A. he was sitting shotgun with his older brother's vessel. B. He was utterly and absolutely fucked.

_Oh Sam, _the Archangel thought, _why did it have to be you?_


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13: Wet Dog Smell

ooo

There were two men sitting at a booth in a small road-side diner. The light overhead flickered uncertainty every few seconds. The waitress eyed the pair with untrusting eyes. An old woman had taken her seat on the far side of the room, her hand drifting to where she had undoubtable hidden a canister of pepper spray. The two men were completely aware of the tense atmosphere, but did nothing about it. They had their own worries to mull over.

"You need to tell me what you found out already," the tall one was complaining to the shorter one.

"Here is not a great place to preach," the shorter one hissed, a frown set firmly on his face.

The waitress retreated behind the counter, biting the inside of her lip. Something about these two set her teeth on edge. She wanted them out of the store as fast as possible. She glanced outside. It was dark outside, and the wind was blowing strongly against the side of the building, making the entire structure creak.

"We had been driving for hours, and every time I ask you about it, you come up with an excuse. Last time I asked, you made us stop and look for fifteen minutes for a McDonalds, just so you could pee. And then, when found one, you didn't even get out of the _car_."

The man with the gingery-brown hair smirked at the memory, and sighed fondly. The taller man reached over the stained table and smacked his arm. He cried out in pain, the other arm going up to sooth his aching muscles. "Hey, ouch!"

"Just tell me what the Hell is wrong with me?" the taller man hissed quietly, so that the waitress had to strain to hear what he was saying. Even then, she wasn't completely sure she had heard right. Maybe if she could last just ten more minutes, Jeff would come and take over for her.

"What isn't wrong with you?"

"Stop turning this into a joke! It isn't funny. We had a deal. As soon as you figured it out, you needed to tell me."

The shorter one sobered. He even had the audacity to look down at his feet. "You're right. I did."

"Damn right."

Gabriel examined his feet. What exactly should he tell the hunter? How much would be too much? The little bit about being Satan's vessel was out for sure, at least for the moment. The demon blood however? That wasn't a _really_ bad place to start. The trickster glanced to the side. The nosy waitress was listening into their conversation. Being the very delicate being that he was, Gabriel leaned in towards the Winchester, trademark smirk plastered on his face.

"You have genital herpes. You passed it on to me and two other people. I told you the stripper club was a bad idea," Gabriel whispered loudly. He chucked inwardly as the waitress's expression grew scandalized. Quickly, she backed away into another room.

"Gabe!"

"Sorry, that girl was listening into our conversation. I'm pretty sure she would have called the police on us."

"Oh," Sam said eloquently, his mouth twisting into a tight line. "You'll tell me now, right?"

Gabriel exhaled softly. "Right. Where to start…"

"The beginning is as good as anywhere."

There was no more beating around the bush. Admittedly, he had been stalling for the past seven hours. There was no good way to say this. "Your premonitions. At first, it was only a suspicion. Some people get telepathy through inheritance. Usually, there are signs pointing towards if it's genetic or not. You don't have any of these side effects, which means that you aren't a natural telepath."

"So?"

"_So,_ it means that it was forced on you."

"What was forced on me?"

"…demon blood."

Sam was quiet for a few seconds, staring at Gabriel like he was expecting the punch line. The Archangel only gazed back, solemn for the first time in quite a while.

"You're serious?"

"Yeah, sorry kiddo."

"So, what do you mean by that? How was… demon blood… forced on me?"

"There used to be a demon, going around and making deals back in the 70s, having parents give him special rights to their kids. He'd come on their sixth month birthday and he'd… well, he'd feed them his own blood."

The Winchester's eyes were hot on Gabriel's. "I've got demon blood in me?"

The trickster winced. He really wished he didn't have to tell Sam this. He wished it had never happened to the poor kid, to anyone really. Maybe it was his inner angel coming through, or some crap like that. Or maybe he'd just finally moved the magnet away from his moral compass.

Sam, on the other hand, looked… there wasn't a single word to describe it. Heartbroken. Furious. Crushed. Determined. Knowing. Disappointed. It wasn't any of these emotions that got through it Gabriel. It was what came next that really sucker-punched the Archangel in the gut.

"Okay."

"What?" the trickster exclaimed, "Just 'okay'?"

The hunter frowned at the table, looking distant. "Not to sound like an angst-y teenager, but I always figured there was something wrong with me."

"There is _nothing_ wrong with you," the trickster quipped indignantly.

The Winchester's eyes shot up to his. His gaze was blazing, and Gabriel was half-convinced he would actually set him on fire. If he was being honest here, Sam probably could do just that if he tried hard enough. "I've got _demon blood in me_!" He hissed.

"And if you're any louder, Mrs. O'Leary over there will hear, and then slap you with her purse. Old women are always the scariest, Sammy," he told the hunter solemnly.

Sam threw the trickster a bitchface. "What does it mean, exactly? The demon blood. What will it do to me?"

"_Do_ to you? Nothing it hasn't already done, as long as you don't mess around with it."

"Why would I do that?" Sam asked, obviously confused.

"Out of curiosity, peer pressure, stupidity, you wanted to make something good come out of it; name your price."

The Winchester frowned. "I don't think so."

"You never know, kiddo. Situations change."

"Is there anything else I should know?" Sam asked irritably.

_Yeah, your whole life is going to suck unless I figure out how to stop the apocalypse. You are my big brother's vessel. You are destined to destroy humanity and the Earth as we know it; along with everyone you ever cared about. There are demons that worship the ground you walk on. They call you 'The Boy King'._ "Nothing."

"Great. Personal crisis aside, take a look at this," the Winchester clipped, sliding a newspaper across the table. It was opened to the obituaries, and contained only one heading.

_Elizabeth "Liza" Brown_

_1989-2006_

_Elizabeth Brown was killed February 3__rd__, at approximately 2:45 AM. Coroner Steve Carlsberg claims it was a large animal attack. There are signs of a forced entry through the window on the downstairs floor. "It looks as if the intruder forced their way out of the house, rather than inside," Chief investigator Meryl Lewis told us. "The intruder must have been let inside voluntarily."_

_The coroner says otherwise. "There are obvious injuries, via a large species of dog. The heart is missing as well," Carlsberg claims, "The investigation shows no animal DNA on the scene," the Chief was quick to retort. "This was an intentional, completely human act."_

_While evidence is contradictory, there are a few facts that are undeniably true. Charles Brown, Elizabeth's husband, has been missing since the time of the accident. He has not been sighted since. Police list him as a suspect, and anyone with more information…_

Gabe looked up from the newspaper. "You think this is a case?"

"I seriously doubt that it _isn't_ a case. Her heart was missing, which means we're probably looking at a werewolf or a skinwalker. The moon cycle is right."

"Ahhh," the former bartender sighed. "That makes sense."

Sam looked somewhat pleased with himself. "It's getting late, and we should go find that motel we passed on the way into town."

"Can't we go somewhere nicer? My back is starting to kill me."

"_You're_ starting to kill me."

Gabe smirked, but didn't reply. The two made their way out of the diner, and the other patrons breathed a silent sigh of relief. The waitress even went so far as to return to the main dining room. She and the old woman make awkward small-talk until Jeff came to relieve her.

ooo

Sam and Gabe found a reasonably clean motel on the edge of town. The cashier, a teenager with horrible acne, checked them in without a second glance. The motel itself smelled of dust and chlorine. The floorboards creaked under Sam's heavy footsteps. The lights were yellow and tried their hardest to light up the hallways; obtaining limited success.

The room was as tasteless as always, except this time, it was candy-themed. Gabe seemed thrilled. But, at that point, Sam was too exhausted to care. Too much had happened in the past week. He just wanted to forget, even if that only meant a few hours of unconsciousness.

Sam slipped into the bathroom while his friend was ogling the candy-shaped pillows. Quickly washing his face and changing into a different outfit, he returned to the main room. Gabe was sitting face down on the closest twin bed (the one Sam had wanted), with his face buried in the colorful cushions. His breathing was deep; he had fallen asleep.

Smiling faintly, Sam grabbed the threadbare spare blanket from the dusty closet and draped it over the sleeping man. Gabe mumbled something incoherent and turned on his side, facing the wall. Sam turned and climbed into his own bed, falling asleep soon after.

ooo

Sam woke to the sound of singing. The hunter sat up groggily, rubbing his eyes and blinking the fuzziness away. It was almost morning, pale pre-dawn light was leaking in through the single skylight. Gabe's bed was empty, and the shower was running.

"Shut up, Gabe," Sam groaned, smothering his face into the pillows and trying to blot out the horrible, off-pitch words.

"You can't stop the music!" he shouted back, then continued to sing louder. The Hunter groaned, climbing out of the uncomfortable bed. He carefully changed into his cheap but passable suit, and then pounded on the bathroom door.

"Gabe, hurry up and get out! We need to get going!"

A few seconds later the water shut off, and the former bartender opened the door a crack. Steam wafted out of the cracked doorway. "Where are we going again?"

"To question the chief of investigation and the coroner."

"Okay."

Neither of them moved. Sam stood awkwardly in front of the door, and Gabe's head remained halfway sticking out of the entranceway. They stared at each other. The Winchester reached up to scratch his neck uncomfortably.

"Can I get my clothes before you jump me?" his friend asked him, mirth evident in his voice. "You're blocking the door."

"Wha- oh, sorry!" Sam stumbled backwards, feet hitting the bedframe behind him. He toppled downwards, landing on his ass. The springs squelched, and he kept falling backwards. Curse the law if inertia. The hunter continued to lean backwards and off the too-narrow bed until he ended up thudding to the floor, feet sticking up into the air.

Gabe was only stunned for a merciful moment before he burst into laughter. He laughed so hard, the Winchester noticed tears streaking down his face. He was doubled over, one hand on the wall, the other attempting to hold up the towel around his waist. Tried as it might, the cloth still slipped, revealing the dip in the other man's waist. Gabe was too busy laughing to notice, but Sam did.

The Winchester groaned, rolling onto his side and stretching both arms over his head to hide his heated face.

"Shut up," Sam mumbled.

The other man was wiping the tears from his eyes, not that the Winchester could see with his head buried in the dusty carpet. "Oh-ho man, I wish I had gotten that on video! Priceless."

The hunter refused to talk to him again until they had arrived at the police station. Even then, it was only to keep up appearances. Gabriel didn't particularly care – yet.

"We are here to see Chief Meryl Lewis," Sam told the woman at the front desk. The two men flashed their FBI cards in her direction. She nodded professionally.

"She is in that room right there. I know she has a phone call due from the director of Homeland Security within the half-hour, so I'd try and keep it short fellas." The woman motioned to the corresponding door and then returned to her work.

"Thank you," the hunter told her curtly. She didn't look up, but Gabriel knew she had heard.

They knocked on the office door. Behind it, they could hear the sound of paper shuffling and a desk drawer closing. Soon enough, however, the entrance sprung open to reveal a wiry, blonde woman in her twenties. She wore a heavy-duty green utility jacket, and her hair was tied back into a pony tail. The room itself _absolutely_ _reeked_ of fruity air freshener and oil diffusers.

"Hello. May I help you?" the Chief asked, her eyes travelling between the two before settling on the taller Winchester.

"Yes." They presented their badges once again. "We need to ask you a few questions about the death of Elizabeth Brown."

"This is a matter of the FBI?"

"It is now."

She sighed. "Come in then and sit down, if you want."

"Thank you," the trickster chimed.

"So," the hunter asked as they sat down in wooden, uncomfortable chairs across the desk from Meryl, "How was she killed?"

"It was most likely her husband, Charles."

"And you know that for sure?" The Archangel asked, cataloguing her reaction closely.

"It was _most likely_ Charles. He has been missing since yesterday night, when she was killed. He was the only one in the house that we are aware of at the time."

Her face betrayed nothing. It was as if she was stating the weather.

"Did Charles have any history of violence or aggression?" Sam went on to inquire.

"None that we are aware of."

"Did he seem different before Elizabeth's death? Was he moody, acting strangely? Anything out of the ordinary?"

She hesitated, but she recovered quickly enough. "Charles was anxious. He said there was something wrong, but he wouldn't tell anyone what it was."

"Do you know what that might be?"

"I'm afraid not. I'm very sorry agents, but I'm expecting an important call soon. If that would be all…?"

"Yes ma'am. Thank you for your time."

They left the police station afterwards. "She was suspicious," the Archangel stated, glancing over at the Winchester.

"Charles is even _more_ suspicious. We should track him down. She said he hadn't been seen since the accident. There are plenty of woodlands around the town to hide in. If we find him fast enough, we can get to him before Homeland Security arrives."

"There are _miles_ of forest! It's freezing out! We'll die before we find him."

Weirdly, Sam laughed at this. "It'll be just like camping. Don't worry; I won't let the bears eat you."

"Only because they'll be after _you_," Gabriel mumbled in retort. "You goddamn moose."

The Winchester only laughed again, ruffling the Archangel's hair playfully. Was it just him, or did it just get a few degrees hotter outside? "We don't even have a tent."

"We don't need one."

"We don't _need_ a tent? Excuse me, but when did you get your wilderness survival patch? I'm not camping out in the cold, February wilderness without a tent."

"Then what do you want me to do? I'm not going to buy a tent from Walmart just to use it once. I'll have to fit it into the trunk of the Impala and carry it around with me for the rest of my life. Besides, I actually _do_ have my wilderness survival patch."

The trickster glanced at the defiant puppy face Sam was making and burst into laughter for the second time that day.

The hunter waited until the Archangel was finished catching his breath. "No tent," he declared, daring Gabriel to argue.

"Fine. No tent. But I will absolutely _not_ be eating refried beans from a can over a campfire."

ooo

They ended up going to Walmart anyways and buying Gabriel his own industrial backpack, which they filled to the brim with everything from matches to gauze strips. Though, the Winchester had put his foot down when Gabe tried to fill the bag half-full with candy.

"That's not practical!" Sam had said.

"Who cares what's practical anymore, Sammy-boy?"

"I do, especially when you run out of real food and you start to starve. I don't want to carry you back to town through miles of uncharted woodlands in mid-winter."

Gabe had rolled his eyes, but put the sweets back anyways. The hunter breathed a sigh of relief and sent a silent thank-you to God. They checked out of the store, and then headed back to the motel. It was late at that point.

"We'll leave in the morning and check out of the motel, so don't forget anything," the Winchester told his friend.

"What am I, four? I won't forget my undies."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Sometimes I don't know why I let you come with me. You're more of a hassle than anything else."

"It's because you like me!" Gabe said in a sing-song voice.

"Goodnight, jackass."

"Goodnight kiddo."

As the Winchester was falling asleep, he could have sworn he heard the sound of light feathers through air as the former bartender collapsed onto his own bed and smiled at Sam before he switched the bedside light out.

He was obviously imagining things. Perhaps he should try to get more sleep.

**Author's Note (Please Read!)**

**Hey guys! So I've been wondering lately if my writing is any good or not, because it looks like I've been losing half my audience after chapter one; and they just keep disappearing continuously after that. So I'd like to ask a favor of you all. Would you be so kind as to write a review and tell me if there are any improvements I could make? Developments to **_**anything**_**, whether it's the titles that you hate, my punctuation, plot holes, or just plain-out the way I write. Go ahead and critique any chapter you feel needs work. So if there is **_**anything at all**_** you'd like to tell me, drop a review? I would really appreciate it. Thanks **_**so**_** much!**


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14: Never Take an Archangel Camping

ooo

Camping with Gabe was fun for all of five minutes. They packed up all of their supplies, hopped into the Impala, drove to the edge of the woods, parked the car _far_ off the beaten road where no one would ever find it, and then began hiking. That's when it all took a turn for the worst.

"What's your family like?" Gabe had asked, looking far too innocent for Sam's liking.

"Family?" the hunter said, surprised.

"Yeah, your family. I've never asked."

"And you shouldn't," Sam warned, throwing the shorter man a stern look. Gabe, however, unwittingly pursued the topic.

"We have time, it's not like this Charles guy is just going to jump out from behind a bush."

The Winchester frowned, looking at their surroundings skeptically. Bare hardwood trees stood tall, their skeletal branches clanking against one another. A chilly wind swept across the naked ground, kicking up long-dead leaves. Frozen sticks crunched under the two pairs of boots. The sky was cloudy, save for small spots of sunny blue sky. It reminded him of the Wendigo hunt his father had taken him on right before he disappeared. Sam would have given anything to find out what happened to his father, and how the demon had gotten inside of him. But right now, he had bigger fish to fry.

"You met my dad," Sam stated blandly.

"You and I both know that's not true," Gabe said, shaking his head wryly. "Look, Captain Stupid; trust me when I say I know about family problems."

The hunter turned to look at the other man, examining him. Gabe stared back defiantly, as if daring him to ask. For a second, he was tempted to do just that. But the shorter man seemed to be radiating a strange kind of power. In that instant, Sam knew that there was more to this man than he was letting on.

"How did you become a hunting specialist?" He inquired instead.

Gabe frowned, not expecting that comment at all. Suddenly, the influence he was exuding was gone, and it was just Gabe again. "You show me yours, and I'll show you mine," he smirked.

Sam frowned, his shoulders sagging in defeat. "Do you really want to know?"

"I wouldn't have asked otherwise, kiddo."

The Winchester turned ahead and began to walk again. "My father, John and I have been travelling around the country for as long as I can remember. I was only a baby when my mom was killed in a fire. Only, the fire wasn't an accident, like the authorities say."

"If it was, you wouldn't be here, hunting," Gabe stated.

"Yeah. My dad was secretive about it for the longest time," Sam huffed. "He wouldn't tell us anything."

"Us?"

"My brother," his voice didn't give away the painful cracking inside of him, "Dean. He's gone now."

"Is he…?"

"Dead? No. Though, sometimes I think dad wished he was. He was pissed as Hell when Dean stayed at a farmhouse where 'problem' boys would go. He was hunting a black dog there. Dean didn't even come outside himself to tell us he was staying. It was the owner that told us. I wish I had been a fly on the wall during _that_ argument. John only relented when Sonny said he'd drag the authorities into it. He called John a child abuser."

"Was he?"

"Not a child abuser, no! But John had to be tough to keep us alive."

"How old were you when this happened?"

He was silent for a second, calculating the years gone by in his head. "Twelve. I think I was twelve."

"He should have left you out of this. This is no life for a kid!"

"It's not like he could have dropped us off at an orphanage, knowing what was out there. My dad wasn't a perfect man, but he did the best he could."

"Did you ever see Dean again, after you left?"

"No."

"Did you ever _talk_ to him again?"

Sam's mouth was stretched into a tight line. "No. He deserved an out. I didn't want to be the one to drag him back in."

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

"You deserve an out, too." Gabe jogged a little to catch up to the Winchester. He stopped when he was directly beside him. His eyes were blazing. The intensity of the gaze startled Sam.

"You're serious?"

"Of course I am! You're unhappier than Hamlet. Cut yourself a break sometime."

"It's too late for me," Sam argued.

"The day it's too late for you is the day you're dead. No one makes us do anything."

The Winchester glanced over at Gabe again. He still held that same fire he did a minute ago. Apparently, the former bartender was very passionate about this. Sam bit the inside of his lip anxiously. "Why do you care so much?"

"Tell me more about your family," the other man commanded. The Winchester found himself doing just that.

"After my brother was gone, I think John thought I was going to do the same. So, he trained me. He trained me harder than he ever did with Dean. We travelled everywhere together, and when I was a good enough hunter to not get myself killed, he'd take me on his hunts. I learned everything from him, and he was the best. I just don't understand that why, after all these years, John finally slips up now."

"He _is_ only human," the other man said seriously.

"John's not like that. He doesn't mess up; not on the hunt, anyways."

Gabriel frowned up at the larger man. He wasn't sure where all of this faith in other people came from. The kid seemed to have jack squat certainty in himself. The Archangel didn't need any of his extensive heavenly powers to tell the giant had a low opinion of himself.

"Now," Sam stated matter-of-factly, "I've told you about my family. How did you become a specialist?"

Gabriel quirked an eyebrow as he ducked underneath a fallen pine tree. The gaunt branches reached out from the sky and snagged at his clothes. "It's a long, _unf_, story Sammy. Last chance to dodge the proverbial bullet here."

"I want to know."

"Can you answer me one more question?" Gabriel asked, watching for the Winchester's reaction closely. He debated snapping a candy bar into his pocket to give his hands something to do, but Sam had practically strip-searched him _twice_ for sweets before they left. He definitely wouldn't take kindly to missing anything.

"Depends on what you're asking." His face was the mask of a liar. Sam looked at him as if he were paint drying on a wall.

"What do you know about your… condition?"

"Condition?" Sam asked; a small frown in place. The trickster noticed his eyebrows crinkle in confusion.

"The blood," Gabriel remarked lightly.

"Oh," the hunter sighed, his face dropping. His gaze shifted to his feet, which were still methodically plodding north across the forest floor. The Archangel wanted to slap himself, but he needed to know. "What do you mean?"

"Well, I don't know a lot about what's happening to you, and I want to help." That much was true. He wanted to help the Winchester desperately. But his main focus was more on saving the Earth rather than saving the hunter that he somehow seemed to care about. Whatever, he wasn't going to dwell on it.

"There's nothing you _can _do to help. There isn't a magic cure for having _demon blood _pumping through my veins. I thought I was messed up before; well, I sure as Hell wasn't wrong."

"You aren't messed up!" Gabriel exclaimed, looking thoroughly pissed off. "You're doing the best you can with a bad situation. It's hardly your fault this happened to you."

"I'm practically earmarked for Hell. Heaven won't take a freak like me," Sam said flatly.

"If Heaven won't take you, then it's their loss. I always believed the angels were a bunch of jerks anyways."

Sam looked scandalized as he hefted a large broken branch out of the trickster's path. He let it back down and it landed with a ruined _thwp_. Gabriel waited for Sam to say something, but he didn't speak up. They walked for a little while in silence. The sun was beginning to set on their first day of travelling. He wasn't excited about camping, but as long as the Winchester was safe he could bear anything.

The Archangel was admiring the growing shadows at the base of nearby pine trees when the hunter spoke up again. "All the blood has done to me so far is given me premonitions of people's deaths. That's actually how I indirectly met you."

"That's it?" The trickster exclaimed before he could stop himself.

"What else is it supposed to do?" Sam probed fearfully.

"That's everything that's happened? Nothing else connected to the blood?"

The hunter paused. "Uh, there is something else… It's not exactly connected to the demon blood directly."

"What?" Gabriel asked, unsure what to make of Sam's uncomfortable expression.

"It was a few months ago. It was right after John disappeared while we were hunting a wendigo. He gave me coordinates to an old shoe factory we had hunted a spirit at before. When I arrived, something happened. At the time I figured out there was a demon problem in town, so trust me when I say I was prepared. But, inside the factory a demon trapped me. It told me its name was Azazel. He knew about my brother and asked where he was. He said I was special and I was of _his_ blood."

"That's disgusting," Gabe scoffed. Sam glared at him half-heartedly, but ignored him.

"That wasn't all. Almost as soon as he said that, a man came out of nowhere. I don't know if he was a demon or something else; but, Azazel seemed afraid of him. I don't think Azazel was any ordinary demon either. He seemed stronger. He apparently thought that the man had been dead. The demon got the Hell out of dodge pretty soon after that."

He should have known Sam would remember something like that. At the time, stepping in had seemed like such a good idea. At the very least, Gabriel should have wiped the Winchester's memory. At the very most he shouldn't have saved him at all.

"Still with me?" Sam asked, amused. The trickster snapped out of his stupor and slapped on his trademark grin, coupled with an eyebrow waggle. Sam scoffed and hit him half-heartedly on the shoulder. An adorable grin slipped past his defenses and climbed onto his face, revealing his dimples. "Glad to see someone is getting humor out of the situation," he deadpanned.

"Someone needs to, and I happen to be your guy."

Sam smiled again. Gabriel had a sudden urge to make him laugh. "Hey kiddo, you didn't bring marshmallows, did you? I've always wanted to make one of those little s'more snowmen."

The hunter chuckled lightly. "I did, actually."

The Archangel was enthralled. "Sammy, you and I are going to be unstoppable."

ooo

They decided to make camp right under a large rocky overhang. Sam had deemed it sturdy enough to be trusted, but Gabriel kept shooting it uncomfortable looks. Soon enough however, the hunter had crafted a merry little fire and the promise of s'mores was enough to overcome any fears he may have once had. They dropped their heavy backpacks in a dry corner, pulled out their insulated sleeping bags, and now currently were jabbing marshmallows onto sticks. The fire hissed as the Archangel's first attempt fell onto the embers in the center of the construction. Sam only laughed and handed the trickster his own, perfectly toasted, marshmallow.

"You should make these professionally," Gabriel quipped, his mouth full.

The hunter laughed, throwing his head back and letting his hair fall out from his face. "I'm pretty sure you'd be my only customer."

"My gain, Earth's loss."

"Dean used to make these for me all the time whenever we got a room with a gas oven. Once, we ate so many that I was sick in bed for two days. Dean was in for three. Speaking of, do _you_ have any family?"

Instantly, Sam knew he had asked the wrong question. Gabe's face dropped. The grin slid off his face like butter from a hot pan. He grew serious. Sam was spitting apologies before he could even think to breathe.

The Winchester's spluttering soon brought Gabe back to attention. "Wow, slow down there! It's fine! I wasn't expecting that question. That's all."

The hunter looked at him warily. "Are you sure?"

"Hell yes. I'm fine."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Gabriel paused. Yeah, he wanted to talk about it. He _really _did. But he shouldn't. He was supposed to be undercover for Dad's sake! But, if there was one thing the trickster was good at, it was doing things he shouldn't. "There is one thing that always gets me," he sighed reluctantly. "Every time I think I'm over them, I realize that I'm not."

"Do you miss them?"

"No, I don't."

"Then what's the problem?"

"I just wish that… well, two of my older brothers fought. Sunday dinner was practically World War III. My dad finally got fed up and disowned one of them. Things went downhill from there. I wish they had just gotten along like they used to."

"I'm sorry," Sam huffed, a sad smile on his face. He got up and moved around the campfire, sitting down next to the shorter man. Gabriel could feel the heat radiating off his body even through his four layers of clothing. "I wish I could help."

"You're not so bad to hang out with, so don't worry about it," the Archangel smirked, butting his shoulder against the Winchester's, knocking loose his necklace from under his unbuttoned shirt. It swung lazily in an arc until it bounced against his jacket. The trickster froze.

"What?" Sam asked, unsure of what had just happened.

"Your necklace… Where did you get that?"

The hunter glanced down at his shirt and pinned the small gold amulet between two fingers. "This? My uncle gave it to me to give to John for Christmas, but he wasn't around. I kept it for myself."

"Don't you know what that is?" Gabriel demanded.

"Uh, apparently not."

The Archangel didn't elaborate; he just took the amulet lightly in his palm. Gabriel could feel the potential energy inside like an electrical outlet. It was lightening in a bottle, the wind in the sails, and possibly the yellow brick road that led to the one and only God.

"Gabe?"

"I know this amulet."

"You do? How? I've worn it practically my whole life. You don't look too much older than I am."

The Archangel bit back a scoff. He was older than Earth itself. "Think about it like this; this little thing here is basically your Marauder's Map to the entire planet. Want to find daddy-o? You can do that. Tracking a rouge werewolf through miles and miles of uncharted wilderness? Just ask the GPS."

Sam was tracking the trickster's every move with hawk-like precision. His eyes were wide and full of something dangerously close to hope. "How?"

"An enormous amount of power, and maybe a little cosmic intervention. We're talking a few nuclear reactors here. Not easy to come by," Gabriel sighed, faking defeat. Little did the moose of a man know that he was practically a walking fucktrillion or so supernova. But he didn't need to know that.

"Oh," the hunter said. His forehead crinkled and he shifted his hopeful gaze away from the necklace. He turned towards the trickster. "We'd better get some sleep. We have a long way to go." The Winchester made to get up and leave, but Gabriel's arm shot out, unbidden, and grasped Sam's coat.

"It's freezing out. Just stay over here and we'll be warmer," he spit out quickly when met with the taller man's questioning gaze.

Sam hesitated, but eventually complied, plopping his body down next to the Archangel's and scooted closer to the smaller man. Gabriel smirked, but softened when Sam threw him an honest smile. _This kid doesn't deserve any of this,_ he thought to himself, watching the hunter settle down and close his eyes.

He laid down and tried to get comfortable on the cold ground. He never actually slept, but he would keep watch over Sam until he woke in the morning. The Winchester's breathing eventually slowed. The kid looked to Dad-damned peaceful and innocent with his hair flopped over his eyes, and the deep stress-lines that stenciled his face faded away. It was in that moment that he knew he would do whatever it took to keep him safe.

ooo

Sam awoke to the sound of shouting and crows.

He was awake instantly, and on his feet only seconds later, flip knife in hand. Gabe had cornered a scraggly, thin man against the rocky overhang to the side of their make-shift camp. The man's arms were filled with the food he and Gabe had packed before leaving. His friend, on the other hand, held a handgun which was pointed at him.

"Drop the food and no one gets hurt," the former bartender snarled. Sam watched in fascination. Gabe was absolutely terrifying. He was reluctant to get any closer himself, but he did anyways; coming to a stop right next to him.

"Who are you?" Sam demanded.

"Uh, Ch-Charles."

"Charles Brown?"

"I didn't do it! It was Sherry! The Chief of Investigation!"

"Why should we believe you?" the hunter asked, taking a menacing step towards the startled man. He bared his knife in front of him, making Charles swallow painfully.

"All I did was walk into her office!"

"What are you talking about?" Gabe questioned.

"She was…" He trailed off for a second, losing his nerve.

"Was what?" Sam lowered his weapon a fraction of an inch.

"Eating… hearts? Raw, bloody, out of a Hollywood movie hearts?" Charles was beginning to look green. "When Sherry saw me, she threatened me and my Elizabeth. When she came over a few nights ago, she…" Charles took a shaky breath. "After Liz was dead, she tried to get me too. I ran. I was so hungry… You can have the food back, just let me go."

"Keep it," Sam said. "We believe you. Come with us. We deal with this kind of stuff."

Gabe threw his two cents in. "We were looking for you, actually. You're safe now."

Charles made a thin noise of agreement. He looked too sick to really argue. Sam might just be carrying someone back through miles and miles of forest after all. The trio packed up camp, ate a quick breakfast of granola bars and water, then headed back towards town. All the while, the crows watched from in the branches like malevolent, dark sentries.

ooo

They spent the entire day hiking through the frigid wild. The wind had picked up since the day before; it whipped the loose, dry ground into the air, making it difficult to breath without inhaling the earth. There was a thin cloud cover. It was reedy enough to let a small amount of sunlight through. The sick man, the former bartender, and the hunter didn't speak for much of the time. By the time they arrived back at the Impala, they were exhausted, irritable, and starving. But there wasn't any time to waste. On the bright side, the Winchester didn't have to carry Charles for very long.

"We'll drop you off at the motel we are staying at and my partner and I will go and take care of Sherry," Sam told the sick man.

"Partner? Is that what they're calling it these days?" Charles asked as he dragged himself into the back seat of the car.

Gabe chuckled from the passenger's seat. Sam allowed himself a wry smile, but otherwise ignored the comment. When he looked over at his friend, the grin on his face told him this wouldn't be the last he heard of that comment.

The drive back to town was quiet to the point where Sam jumped if someone so much as breathed too loudly. They dropped Charles off at the motel, arming him with a small silver knife, the spare room key, and the instructions to keep quiet and only open the door for them and only them. Charles muttered an agreement, and then they were off again, this time heading for the police department.

Sam felt Gabe's eyes on him, but he refrained from meeting them. His gaze remained staunchly on the dark road in front of them. His mind was busy calculating a plan. There was little doubt the two men would have to break into the station. Somehow they needed to dodge the security cameras, locate Sherry, the friendly neighborhood werewolf, and then take her out without raising suspicion. Suffice to say it wasn't going to be an easy hunt.

"Hey kiddo?" Gabe spoke up, "Care to tell me what's goin' on in that grapefruit of yours?"

"Plan," Sam replied, distracted.

"We could sneak up the garbage chute in the back."

"Garbage chute?" The hunter interrogated, head snapping towards the shorter, grinning man. Gabe shrugged, but Sam could practically _see_ his ego inflating. Dick.

"While you were deep-frying the Chief, I was exploiting her distraction. You could see the security camera footage in the next room from where we were sitting. There was only one shot of the back of the station, and it showed a garbage chute low enough to climb into. If we can get rid of the camera, we're home free," his friend stated, obviously pleased with himself.

A smile grew on the Winchester's face. "I'm starting to be glad I invited you along."

The shorter man shrugged. "It was bound to happen sometime. I'm irresistible."

The Winchester snorted. "You're as irresistible as a slug, but with half the charm."

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Gabe's mouth drop open. "Hey! I resent that."

He shrugged. "It's true."

"I am the most irresistible being you'll ever meet, Winchester."

"Right. I don't know how lucky I am," the hunter quipped sarcastically, the smile playing at his lips again.

The police station was within their sights now. Sam drove the slick, black Impala into the darkest corner of the parking lot. They clambered out, quietly shutting the squeaky doors behind them.

Discreetly, the Winchester handed his partner a silver-loaded handgun. Gabe accepted it, and then made a show of inspecting it by looking directly down the barrel. Sam's eyebrow lifted questioningly. A few seconds later, apparently his friend deemed had the weapon worthy. Sam decided not to comment.

"I can take care of the camera," Gabe whispered, appearing completely relaxed by the hunter's side. Sam was envious; he still occasionally became nervous during a hunt. This was one of those times. His hand dropped to his flip knife, nestled comfortingly at his hip. He let out a small breath.

"Are you sure?"

"Piece of cake. In fact, we should get a slice later. I heard the diner in town makes a mean carrot cake."

Sam chuckled, but quickly stifled it. "Okay. I'm going to head in then."

"Don't worry about a thing," Gabe declared.

Despite the situation, it was nice knowing someone had his back again. They parted ways, each feeling the same.

**Author's Note**

**Thank you all so much for reviewing last chapter! Everyone was perfectly lovely and every time I saw a new review, my entire day lit up! I want you all to know that the offer still and will always stand if you want to comment on any mistakes I've made or if you want to complain about the plot. One issue I would like to address however is the distinct lack of sabriel. Yes I will put it in eventually, but I don't feel the characters have developed enough to take that step. Yes that might be an excuse, but I decided that I will pretend it's not. So I would like to ask of you two things, a. be patient. Sabriel is coming! And b. continue to complain about anything you want. Be as mean or as polite as your sadistic little heart desires. Thank you all so much for reading!**


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15: Perfume Princess

ooo

Sam wondered if anyone had ever thought of cleaning out the garbage chute. The dark, cramped, enclosed space smelled like something along the lines of a dead raccoon that had been on a strict diet of other dead raccoons for its entire life. The walls of the tunnel were practically covered in a layer of crusty organic material and something that felt somewhat like pus. Despite the conditions of the space, the hunter kept crawling onward, doing his best to ignore the situation.

The plan was for Sam to climb into the station and unlock the back door, letting Gabe inside. Together they would scope the building out and see if they could find any clues to where Sherry the supposed werewolf lived. After that the plan was obvious. He would take that son of a bitch out.

Gradually the chute evened out. Sam let a breath of relief escape him. Through the dark, he could see a sliver of light through what looked like a latch. Crawling forward, he felt to see if it was locked. Pushing against the thin metal, it didn't budge. Freaking Winchester luck; Sam just never caught a break.

That left only one option; he would need to break out. It was likely that there were still people inside of the base, and he had no way of telling if there was anyone in his immediate vicinity. But, there wasn't exactly another way inside. Sam sighed, bracing himself against the grimy walls of the space and pushed.

The latch broke fairy easily, making only a moderate amount of noise. Gritting his teeth, Sam climbed out of the garbage chute and stumbled into the break room of the police station. It was dark and the only light came from the lamps on the bottom of the microwave. He stopped and listened for the sound of approaching footsteps, luckily finding none. Perhaps his "Winchester Luck" wasn't as bad as he had originally thought.

Now, his first order of business; find the back door and let Gabe inside.

The door was open, leading out of the break room. Sam peered around the corner, seeing no one. He snuck out, heading to where he imagined the door would be. As he traversed the seemingly empty police station, he began to notice just how quiet the building was. There was no police radio static, no monotonous blipping of little red lights with an unknown purpose, and no sign of inhabitants. It was almost as if no one had been in the structure for hours.

Experimentally, he checked the station's computer system in an empty room. If he could access the FOB key system, he might just be able to tell who had last checked into the building, and who last checked out. Gabe would have to wait a few minutes.

Being a small town, Sam figured that the police had gone lax on internet protections and firewalls. He couldn't imagine why anyone would want to break into such an insignificant city's police station. Likely the worst crimes they saw in the area was an occasional drunk and disorderly. After a few minutes of typing, he managed to pull up the FOB key list. It seemed that the last person to use the key was the sheriff herself, and only about fifteen minutes before he and Gabe arrived at the scene. There was another full moon tonight, meaning she had probably abandoned the station in favor of a more populous place to turn.

Sam groaned. He would have to track down the werewolf through the town. He had hoped to keep this case easy. Honesty there was bigger things that needed his attention, like the fact that he had demon blood in him, the whereabouts of his MIA father, or the fairly guarded nature of his new partner.

Suddenly, his phone buzzed from within his pocket. Figuring it was Gabe, he ignored it. Making his way quickly to the back of the police station, Sam whipped open the metal reinforced door and stepped outside into the cool night air.

"You stink like shit," the shorter man quipped.

"She isn't here," Sam growled. "She left fifteen minutes ago."

"Well, we'll just have to find her then! Don't get so down, it's not the end of the world."

"There is a full moon tonight, Gabe. She'll kill again if we can't track her down fast enough," Sam sighed, running a hand through his hair and glaring at the moon far above them. The former bartender threw him a remorseful look, which then morphed into a thoughtful one.

"Maybe Charles knows where she may be. After all, they know each other. We'll just head back to the motel and figure it out from there."

"Good idea," the Winchester nodded, "I don't want to waste time. Let's head back now."

"Whatever you say, kiddo."

ooo

The motel was just as bland as they had left it. The dirty siding paired with the horrendous purple doors made the place look as if it was better fit for a garbage dump than a suitable living space. The pair of men hurried to open their designated room, appropriately tagged _Room 66_.

"Wait," Sam commanded suddenly, just as Gabe was about to jam the key into the doorknob.

"What?"

In response, the hunter pushed on the door without unlocking it. To Gabe's surprise, the door swung brokenly open, falling off of one hinge. Upon further inspection, there appeared to be deep gash marks on the wood. The knob bore similar marks before falling straight off of the door itself and clambering to the ground with a metallic clang.

Inside was a far worse scene.

Charles was everywhere in the most literal sense possible. The fan lazily rotated around in circles, swinging around thick red ropes. Sprays of blood soaked the walls. The carpet, which originally had been a dirty red anyways, now looked better than it had before. Propped up in the corner of the room was the largest portion of the former man. Bent over him was none other than Sherry, who by this time was now confirmed as _definitely a werewolf_. She was shoving her face with a hunk of stinking red meat; Charles's heart.

Sam flew into action before he even had the time to fully absorb the gruesome scene before him. Brandishing the silver knife he had shoved in his pants pocket about half an hour before, he flew at the Sheriff with twenty or so years of experience standing behind him. Sherry made a surprised noise before reacting, lunging straight at the Winchester.

The two collided, each moving too fast to really avoid an impact. The Winchester felt her sinking her claw-like fingernails into his scarred skin. He grunted in pain, but retaliated quickly by slashing the werewolf across the face with the blade of his knife. She screeched but did not release her hold on Sam.

That's when another force knocked into Sherry, sending the two yelling bundles into the opposite wall of the motel room. It was Gabe, who now had managed to sink his own knife into the Sheriff's shoulder. She let out a horrible ear-splitting scream, but still did not relent. Sam had a moment to really look at the scene before him.

Sherry was positively feral. Her lips were pulled back into a grisly smile, her face contorted into something almost demonic. Her face was crusted with dry blood and spittle. She looked exactly like something he hunted almost every day of his life. His friend on the other was a different story. He appeared almost regal. There wasn't exactly a way to describe it. He lunged at the werewolf again, and Sam's moment was over. He too entered the fight.

The hunter aimed his silver knife at her thigh, but the Sheriff swung out her arm at the last moment, sending the weapon careening to who-knows where. Instead of moving to retrieve it, Sam pulled out his faithful pocket knife from deep within his pocket. The tiny blade may have looked stupid and useless against such a creature, but it had never failed him before.

The flip knife's luck held true. Almost immediately, the hunter was able to bury the weapon between her ribs. Apparently Gabe had gotten his hands on Sam's missing silver knife, because they all soon found it sticking out of Sherry's neck.

It was anticlimactic; the Sheriff let out an unhappy wet cough and collapsed to her knees. Her eyes became unfocused. Both he and the former bartender stood over her, an unhappy grimace on their faces. Sherry struggled to pull the weapon out of her neck, but her attempts were feeble and weak. She shot them both a look of pure fury, and then died.

"Well shit," Gabe muttered under his breath in a long sigh.

Sam couldn't agree more.

ooo

Cleanup wasn't easy on either of them, to say the least. Honestly speaking, neither of them had known Charles very well, nor liked him, but both of them could agree that he hadn't deserved to die; especially in such a horrible way as he did. Somehow, the entire ordeal went unnoticed by the owners of the motel. In fact, the man who came to tell them they needed to leave the room the next morning even went so far as to thank them for cleaning up the carpet. "It hasn't looked this good in years!" he exclaimed, and Sam had to restrain himself from doing something stupid.

The Impala sat in the parking lot where they had left it the previous night, looking as stoic as ever. When the pair had finally packed up their belongings, burned, and buried their dead acquaintance Gabe patted the hood of the car fondly. "I have to admit, I really hate this car."

"What?" Sam gawked stupidly.

"It's just a damn ugly car, kiddo," the shorter man laughed. How Gabe could find humor in this not even _remotely_ funny situation was absolutely beyond Sam's understanding.

"A man just died, Gabe," the hunter reminded the other.

"People die all the time, Sammy. Sometimes, there is really just nothing you can do except move past it."

"Move past it? How can I, Charles was murdered under our watch only yesterday! I should never have left him alone," Sam spat, his fists clenching. Gabe looked at the Winchester with only pity in his eyes. He took a step forward and set a hand on the hunter's shoulder. The Winchester didn't seem to notice.

"Sam, if you're blaming yourself for this, I swear I'll kill you myself."

"You never told me how you became a specialist. You said you would," the taller man said suddenly, looking intensely downward at the former bartender.

"This obviously isn't a good time to talk about this, Sam," Gabe retorted, folding his arms and turning away from the Winchester's rage-filled gaze.

"Why not? What could possibly be so bad that you have to keep from telling me? Don't you trust me?"

"Trust you? Kiddo, even if I didn't trust you; you wear your heart on a sleeve. As much as you like to pretend you're a tank, bruising your way over this… _minefield_ you call a life; I could read you from a mile away! I know when you're lying, I know when you're hurt and afraid-" Sam made a noise of protest at this point, but the shorter man ignored him. "Look, point is Samsquatch, I think this is a conversation for another time. We just lost Charles, and it's obvious you aren't over it, and you're blaming yourself. So let's just go get some ice-cream, okay? You can cry into the bowl as we recount heartfelt moments from these past few days."

Sam took a deep breath and forced this conversation into his 'touch-upon later' section of his mind. With one final, heartfelt glare, he relented. "Fine. I think there was an ice-cream place on the northern border of town. You're paying," he grunted, fished the keys out of his tan jacket.

"Can I drive for once?" Gabe asked, looking as if he were the most innocent child on the face of the planet.

"Not even if I was dead," the hunter replied, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. His partner on the other hand only sighed, taking his place in the passenger's end of the black, vintage car.

The Winchester climbed into the driver's throne and started the engine. Immediately the radio started to blast Ramble On by Led Zeppelin. Sam sighed, turning the station down until they couldn't hear the music any longer.

They arrived at the Dairy Queen much sooner than Sam could appreciate. For some reason, he was getting an uneasy feeling that he had missed something important. He didn't even notice when Gabe had gotten frozen dairy product in his hair. To give his hands something to do, the hunter pulled his cell phone out from his pocket and began to turn it over in his palms as if it held the secrets of the universe.

"Are you going to eat that, or is it just going to turn into a big strawberry pile of slop?" The former bartender frowned, his mouth half full of cake cone and chocolate chips.

In response, Sam practically bit off a hunk of freezing strawberry ice-cream. The dessert was delicious, but he hardly noticed.

"Oh no, you've got that brooding expression. Are you going to lay an egg, or is something wrong?" the shorter man asked, a playful smile lighting up his face.

"I can't shake the feeling that I missed something," the hunter mused.

"I get that feeling sometimes," the specialist considered. "Usually I just go and beat up some monsters and then I feel better."

The Winchester frowned and didn't reply. He was looking down at his phone, eyebrows furrowed and looking skeptical. "I didn't know you had my number."

Gabe looked perplexed. "You never gave it to me. Not that phone, at least."

Sam looked at the tiny cheap screen. _You have 1 missed call._ The text announced in dim block letters. "You didn't call me yesterday night?"

"…No? What's going on?"

"Someone called me, and I had assumed it was you. Give me a second, they left a voicemail. I don't know the number." The Winchester selected the unheard voicemail and held the cell phone up to his ear, handing the rest of his strawberry ice-cream to his friend, who positively beamed.

_You have one unheard message._

_There was static one the line at first. Then a pixilated voice spoke. "Hey… Dad? It's me. I know we haven't talked in a while, but I'm sort of in a little trouble. But before that, I wish I hadn't of gotten your voicemail. It would be better if I could talk to you directly."_

_Look- I'm not very good at this. I made a mistake; I shouldn't have left you guys. But I don't regret it. I have a good life, I have a freaking dog! Well, had. That's kinda the issue here. There is some sort of spirit hanging around Sonny's place. Where you hunted that black dog back in '95? I'm a bit too rusty to take it on myself. Don't worry about a cover-up story or doing this in the middle of the night or anything. I sort of own the place now."_

"_Anyways, I hope you still use this number. Nobody has died yet, apart from the dog. Things here are going to go sky-high soon, I can tell. Oh, and before I forget; maybe have Sammy call me too? I'd just like to… you know… hear from him. Well… yeah. Okay. Bye."_

_A muted beep sounded in Sam's ear and the message ended._

Dean.

There is a mountain of difference between hearing about your older brother on the internet, and _actually hearing_ your older brother calling you on the phone. Well, calling John. Sam had a wild desire to listen to the message again, but that soon was surpassed by the cold wind that suddenly swept over the Dairy Queen.

He couldn't call Dean back! Firstly, the man had a good life. Apparently, he owned the farmhouse now. He was an honest, working American. If Dean knew about the hard time his little brother was having, it was likely that he would jump head-first back into hunting. The Winchester wanted nothing more than to keep his older brother out of this.

Secondly, John was gone. Sam had no idea what kind of person Dean had become over the years. He had no idea how he would react to Sam showing up on his front lawn with a canister of rock salt in one hand, and a sawed-off shotgun in the other, not to mention a self-absorbed stranger in tow.

But… Dean was in trouble. As he had stated in the message, the older Winchester was in no condition to go digging up graves in the dead of night. He needed help from a hunter, like himself. It wasn't like Sam to ignore a plea for help, especially from someone he knew personally, even if it had been more than ten years since they'd fought over pizza before parting ways.

No. He would go.

"Sammy? You okay?"

The hunter snapped out of his stupor. Gabe was sitting across the waxed table, looking concerned. His face was covered in both chocolate and strawberry ice-cream. He smelled strongly of just the same. One tuft of hair was sticking up towards the ceiling, smeared with more dessert.

"That was Dean," Sam managed to croak.

The specialist choked on his spit. "W-what?"

"He's in trouble. We need to go. Get cleaned up and meet me at the car."

"Wait, Sam, let's not do anything rash. Maybe we should take a little bit to think this through," the shorter man argued.

"What's there to consider? This is my brother we're talking about. I've thought about it enough."

"Or maybe, have you considered that you might have a giant Dean-sized hole in your judgment? What if this is a trap?"

"A trap? I seriously doubt that my older brother is going to try and kill us," the taller man growled.

"It could be a shapeshifter, or maybe something that can impersonate him? Or it could be demons. Those crafty sons of bitches have it out for you, I swear," Gabe remarked.

"I'll call him back. Don't make me remind you that I'm calling the shots here. You're just tagging along."

Gabe looked less than pleased, but eventually he capitulated. "Fine. I'll be out of the bathroom in five minutes. But I want you to know that I think you're being stupid, and that's going to get you in trouble someday."

Sam was already rushing outside. "Noted."

They parted ways, and soon enough the Winchester had locked himself inside of the Impala. He opened up what was most likely Dean Winchester's number, and with only a short breath of hesitation, the hunter pressed dial. The phone rang only twice before someone picked up on the other end.

"_Dad?"_


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16: Dean Winchester

ooo

"_Dad_?" Dean's pixilated voice asked lowly. Even with ten years layered into the man's voice, Sam could still tell it was him. The hunter must have hesitated too long hearing Dean's voice, because the older Winchester was soon speaking once again.

"_Dad? Is that you?"_

Sam cleared his throat. "Uh, no. Not exactly."

"_Oh, sorry, I hadn't realized that I had gotten the wrong number. I'm sorry, I'll-"_

"No wait! Don't hang up," Sam scrambled to exclaim_._

Dean was hesitant now, suspicious._ "Why?"_

"John, right? You wanted to talk to John Winchester?" Sam started awkwardly. How do you even announce yourself to someone you haven't spoken to or seen in ten years? The hunter needed to play his cards just right in order to keep his older brother out of hunting, but also to get rid of his spirit problem. The taller man cleared his throat again, waiting for a response.

"…_Do you know him? Is he around by any chance?"_

"He's not around anymore."

"_Why?" _Dean asked; the surprise evident in his voice._ "What happened to him?"_

"It's kind of a long story. I got your voicemail. I can help."

"_I don't even know who you are."_

Honestly, that shouldn't have hurt as much as it did. Some small part of Sam had hoped that their reunion would be a happy one. Dean would be glad to speak to his younger brother again. Sam would feel relieved that his brother was doing well in life. Maybe they would meet up and go out for a beer. But Dean didn't even recognize him. There was a possibility he wouldn't even care at all that he was speaking to his little brother again, after ten years.

"I didn't expect you to," he replied instead, his voice a cool neutral.

"_How do you know John?" _His older brother questioned.

"Does it matter?" the hunter asked, feeling anxious all of a sudden.

"_Well, I sure as Hell wouldn't be asking if it wasn't. Why? Got something to hide?"_

"Dean, John's my father. It's Sam."

The silence was absolutely deafening. The taller man couldn't even hear his older brother breathing on the other side of the line. Time was inconceivable. It felt to Sam as if the whole world was hanging in the balance of just a few seconds.

"_Sam?"_

"Yeah."

Time sped up once again. Dean was no doubt surprised, and the hunter couldn't blame him. He just wished he would get over it so they could get down to business.

"_You sound like you've been eating your Wheaties."_

The taller man let out a nervous laugh. Good old Dean.

"_What the Hell, man? You're still hunting?"_

"Yeah, I'm still hunting Dean."

"_Where's Dad? I'll kick his ass."_

The hunter's faint smile fell as he remembered the demon that had taken over his father. It was ironic that the corrupted creature that had possessed his dad seemed somehow more docile and friendly than John had been in years. "John's as good as dead, Dean."

"_How? What do you mean 'as good as dead'?"_

"It's not a story for over the phone," Sam muttered.

"_Fine, fine. Don't think I'll forget about it, either. So, how have you been doing lately?"_

He scoffed. How the older man had become so domestic was beyond him. "What's next, the weather?"

"_Just answer the question, bitch," _Dean quipped.

A tap on the window distracted the hunter from his conversation. It was Gabe, cleaned up from the bathroom. He was holding yet another ice-cream cone, this time it was an offensive orange color. "Are you going to let me in, kiddo?"

"_Sam? You there?" _the older Winchester asked; a breath of unexplainable disappointment in his voice.

"Listen, I need to go. We're heading towards Sonny's. Text me the address."

"_Wait, 'we'?" _his brother inquired.

"Goodbye, Dean."

He hung up with a monotonous beep.

The hunter unlocked the Impala door, allowing his friend inside. A wave of the most sugary frozen dairy smell Sam had ever had the displeasure of scenting wafted into the car. The Winchester nearly choked on it. Looking over, he could already see the sticky imprints of the former bartender's fingers on the dashboard.

"Who was that?" the specialist asked, licking a bit of the dessert off of his lips, which Sam's eyes unwillingly followed.

There was no way he could spin this in order to make Gabe any less unhappy, so he just spit it out. "I called Dean."

The entire mouthful of orange ice-cream ended up all over the windshield. "You what?" the man practically yelled. "You numb-nut! There is every possibility this could be a trap, so what do you do? You call him! What did you tell him?"

The hunter felt humbled. Yeah, so that probably wasn't one of his better life choices, but he didn't regret it. "All I told him for sure is that we would be heading in his direction, and he would text me the address." As if in sync with what he was saying, the Winchester's phone buzzed with a text from the very person they were speaking of.

"We? Did you tell him about me, too?"

"No. I hung up."

The specialist seemed to relax a little at that. "Well, at least if you get screwed over, there will still be someone left to save you."

Sam laughed at that. "Yeah, at least I have _one _person still looking out for me who isn't dead.

Gabriel nodded. Even though he was still pretty pissed off, he could still appreciate what was being said.

The Winchester wasn't alone yet.

ooo

Sam, somehow managing to find Wi-Fi even in the seediest of places, found a relatively decent list of directions to the place his older brother now lived. Gabe was actually very calm and pleasant, throughout the drive, all things considered. Officially, their trip should have taken a little over thirty hours to complete, but with the hunter behind the wheel, they figured they could shave it down to about a day. That was only if Gabe hadn't of made them stop to sleep.

"Jesus, Sam! Even if you're fine with driving the whole way without stopping, I still want my beauty sleep! We are going to stop, even if I have to knock you out and drag you to the nearest Holiday Inn myself!"

"Can't you just sleep in the backseat or something?" The Winchester yawned, pouring half of the cold cup of coffee down his throat.

"The sun will still rise tomorrow, alright? Sleep won't kill you, and New York isn't getting any farther away."

"But it sure isn't getting any closer," the hunter grumbled, allowing himself to be dragged into the hotel where his friend had announced they were staying only moments ago.

The man at the counter looked at them with tired, unhappy eyes and handed them a room key. The specialist practically skipped down the dusty hallways until they both arrived at room one-hundred and two.

"See?" the shorter man quipped as he threw open the door. "This isn't too bad, is it?"

"Actually, this is probably the nicest place I've ever stayed in," he remarked, feeling as if he should have stayed back in the car. Sam felt too dirty to be standing in a room as nice as this. He shifted uneasily as he stood in the threshold of the hotel room.

"Seriously? Kiddo, you need to learn to live a little. That's just sad."

"Well, I never asked for your opinion. I've never been able to afford big chain hotels anyways."

"Hey - I never asked, how _do_ you make money?"

"Well, I usually hustle pool; or, if it's a long hunt where I have to hang out in a town for a while, I'll get a job at a gas station or somewhere for a few weeks."

The shorter man threw him a sad look, but the Winchester appreciated it when he didn't remark.

"Actually, once, when I was posing as an FBI agent, someone actually sent me a paycheck. I have no idea how, but I was hanging around another, actual agent. I guess that had something to do with it. I don't think I'll ever see that much money again," the hunter reminisced.

"What did you do with the money?" His friend asked.

"I spent it all on some repairs for the Impala," the Winchester replied sheepishly.

Gabe groaned. "And to think I thought you were going places. Now, are you going to come in and relax, or what?"

The hunter sighed. "Fine. But we're going to wake up early to leave, alright?"

"I wouldn't expect anything less."

ooo

The next day the two men were up at three in the morning, as per requested by Sam. They drove quietly out of Colorado and into Nebraska. The landscape gradually lessened in height and hills until it was only a flat stretch of land for as far as the eye could see. Farmland that smelled of sweet fruits and musty cows lined each side of the back road. The only sound they could hear was the hum of the engine and an occasional crow overhead.

A few hours into their trip, Gabe broke the silence. "Are we close to the Harvelle Roadhouse?" he inquired suddenly, nearly making Sam jump.

"I think it's about a half-hour out of our way," the hunter commented.

"We should visit while we're so close. Who knows when we'll be back?"

"I guess you're right…" The hunter muttered. Ellen and Jo would probably take the news of John's… new occupation well. He had gotten the idea that he and the Harvelle's had had a spotty past. How he fit exactly into their complicated puzzle was beyond him. Sometimes he wasn't even sure why people put up with him. "We'll stop there for a little while. But not long, alright? I want to get to New York as soon as possible."

"Good. Now step on it."

ooo

The vintage, black car made dust trails above the dusty, pot-hill ridden dirt road as the team made their way to the Roadhouse. Sam frowned as he listened to the small pebbles hitting the bottom of the machine. The former bartender had stuck his head out of the window.

The Roadhouse itself looked no worse for wear, although the Winchester himself felt like a different person. So much had happened in the matter of only a few months. His constant, nagging suspicion of being different had been confirmed. He gained a partner that he trusted, to an extent. Gabe always seemed trustworthy enough, but it was obvious that he was hiding something.

Sam parked the impala in a shady corner of the parking lot, and stepped outside. It looked from the exterior that the building was closed, but the hunter knew better. Motioning to Gabe to follow, the pair stepped into the air-conditioned place.

"Sam Winchester, well speak of the devil! It's good to see you again. Hey - if it isn't the Jerk himself! I'm surprised the tall one hasn't left you on the side of the road somewhere, yet," Ellen exclaimed from behind the counter where she had been cleaning it with a wet towel.

"Oh I've tried," Sam commented, smiling. "He just keeps coming back like a lost dog."

"Please, if anyone around here is going to roll over on command, it'll be you, kiddo," the specialist smirked, chuckling when the hunter's face grew red. Eventually, the Winchester cleared his throat and spoke again.

"We just came to stop by and say hello, Ellen."

"You sound like you have somewhere important to be," she commented, obviously interested in their destination.

"Yeah, Gigantor over there pulled out all the stops this time; and doubts I had about his idiocy have been completely and utterly obliterated," the shorter man frowned, throwing knives at the taller with his eyes.

"What happened?" Jo asked, walking into the room at that moment.

"Dean contacted me," Sam asked, using his words like a weapon; and daring anyone to question his motives. "He thinks there is a poltergeist at his place, and he needs someone to take care of it. We were heading there now, when we decided to stop by and say hello," he explained.

"Are you stupid, or just an idiot?" Jo snarled. "That practically screams 'trap'!"

"Don't be so hard on him, Jo," Ellen defended. "I can see where he is coming from, even though it was still a pretty idiotic move."

"Thanks," Sam grumbled, "But I'll be fine. I'm still going, whether you like it or not."

"I may not be your blood, boy, but don't think for one minute I would let any hunter walk into a situation he couldn't handle."

"You're not going to _let _me do anything. I'm a big boy, I can handle myself. We need to get back on the road. Are you still coming with me, Gabe?"

Gabe, who had been examining the newspaper clippings on the wall, started at hearing his voice. "Uh, yeah of course I'm still coming. First off, I don't have a ride. Secondly, someone needs to keep an eye on you. You seem to have a knack of getting into trouble," he laughed.

"Okay," the hunter replied, feeling slightly more certain now that a friend to watch his back. "I'll see you later, Ellen. Stay in school, Jo."

The younger, blonde girl only stuck out her tongue and disappeared behind a doorway.

As they walked out the front entrance, Sam looked back to see the older Harvelle woman practically scowling at the pair. The Winchester hurried outside soon after.

The next portion of the trip was uneventful, apart from the gradual shift in landscape from the Great Plains to the forests of the Eastern United States. Towards the afternoon, a light snow began to fall from the cloud-strewn sky. Over time, the pace increased. Snow began to fly from the sky like angry hornets, set on some poor, unfortunate person. Sam watched as Gabe wheeled the window open, and did nothing to stop him. Soon the snow was dashing in through the opening, stinging against the shorter man's face and turning it a bright red.

"You know, I always really liked snow. It's one of God's greater creations, I like to think," the former bartender commented.

"I think you're one of his _worst_ creations," the hunter quipped.

"Seriously, kiddo; it's literally frozen water that rains from the sky when it gets cold. I think that's pretty damn cool," there was a wistful edge to the shorter man's voice that the Winchester couldn't even pretend to miss.

"Are you okay?" he inquired, his eyebrows crinkling in confusion. Yeah, this man was a mystery to him.

"I'm fine," the old Gabe was back. "Hey, look! There's the sign for New York!"

He was right, Sam could see in the distance a small sign foretelling their entrance into the state of New York. He breathed a sigh of relief. He really wanted to get out and stretch. They had been driving for hours already, and it was starting to get really cold; no thanks to his friend.

"So how long until we get there?" the shorter man asked, sounding dangerously close to a whine.

"We should be there in about fifteen minutes. Will you survive?"

"That's debatable. Where did you hide the snacks?"

ooo

The farmhouse sat in the center of a few acres of land. The tall grass was covered by a thin layer of snow. The apple groves in the background were bare of their leaves and coated with a jacket of ice that shone in the dim afternoon light. The air was full of the light scent of frost and the heat of the horses in the barn. The farmhouse itself had just been painted a mint green color; and its porch crisp and clean. Boot tracks could be seen trekking through the drifts, on their way to locations unknown.

Sam pulled the Impala up the frozen dirt driveway and parked it under a large, gnarled elm tree. He couldn't believe this is where his brother had lived for the past ten years. Actually, he could barely believe that this was his life at all. It felt as if he were watching himself on television from someone else's body. Who could have come up with such a horrible story line? If he ever met the author, he'd have a few choice phrases to say; particularly with his fists.

A sudden wave of anxiety washed over him. What was he doing here? What had he been thinking? The only thing stopping him from leaving at that very moment was the cheerful golden-haired man currently stepping out of the black car behind him. "Got everything you need in that backpack of yours, Samsquatch?"

"I could probably take down an army of demons," Sam commented off-handedly, shifting under the weight of the heavy industrial backpack. "Let's go."

The snow crunched under their boots as the pair trudged up the walkway that led to the blue front door. Skeletal plants in hibernation through the long New York winter lined the stone path made the area seem homey and lived-in. The two men stepped onto the front porch, and Gabe rang the doorbell off to the left of the entranceway. Footsteps could be heard walking through the house and towards where the pair stood. The blue door opened.

"Unless you're selling Girl Scout cookies, we don't want any," the brown-haired man frowned. He wore a loose-fitting grey shirt and unassuming blue jeans with a rip in the left knee. His hair was wet, and a towel hung around his neck. It was Dean Winchester, albeit an extremely buff and older Dean Winchester, but it was Dean Winchester none-the-less.

Gabe scoffed. "Jesus, I must have missed the part in the brochure where it said that all the Winchester's came tall and muscled."

Dean started, looking at the shorter man. "Uh, do I know you?"

Sam sighed, still feeling nervous. "It's me Dean. Sam?"

The older man must have choked on his own spit, because the next thing they all knew, Dean was practically hacking his lungs out. "S-Sam? Holy shit, you're so friggen' _tall_!"

The hunter only shrugged, not knowing exactly how to respond to that. His hand slipped behind him and into his back pocket, grasping the metal flask containing holy water. But, instead of simply flushing his brother's face with the liquid, he waited.

"There's a lot much we need to talk about, Sam. Come inside, do you want a beer?"

"We're alright," the hunter commented.

"By the way, who is 'we'? Does short-stack have a name?"

"I take offence to that," the former bartender pouted. He sobered quickly enough, to the hunter's delight. "Name's Gabe, I like sugar on my waffles and tall men."

Both of the Winchester's faces grew red in the silence that followed.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17: The Problem and the Not So Easy Answer

ooo

The three men sat in the center of the living room, a small fire crackling warmly from within the fireplace. The walls creaked ever so slightly when a gust of wind shook the farmhouse outside. The room itself was a cheery dark cream color, and the couches a homey, worn yellow. Pictures of young boys lined the mantel above the fire. Shells, crayon drawings, children-made pottery and other assorted knick-knacks were jumbled onto shelves hung on the wall. A large window adored the longest wall, showing the cold, winter morning outside. A single bird sung from one of the trees in the backyard.

Gabe clung to a hot chocolate for dear life as the Winchester brothers conversed quietly. "I was hunting a wendigo a few months ago when John disappeared. He told me he was going ahead to scope out the area and didn't come back," Sam was reiterating.

"And you don't know what happened to him?" Dean asked, frowning into his beer.

Sam wrung his hands in his lap. "Not exactly."

"Are you going to tell me what that means? Dude, he's my dad too."

"Look, Dean; I don't think you want to know. You need to stay out of this, okay? I can handle this myself." There was no way he was going to debrief his brother on recent events. Anything in the dictionary from demons to blood was completely out of the question. If it was the last thing he ever did, he would keep Dean out of hunting.

The older Winchester looked on the verge of a tangent when Gabe stepped in. "Listen, Dean-o. Your little brother isn't exactly alone in all of this. I have his back. There isn't anything you can do to help. He's a great hunter and you would only hamper his efforts. The best thing you can do is let Sam do what he does best. Hunting."

The older man looked anything but pleased, but luckily he relented for the moment. "Is there anything else I should know?"

"Nothing that I could tell you in less than a week, no," Sam explained ruefully. "What can you tell me about the spirit?" he asked, changing gears.

Still looking unhappy, the older Winchester began to spill everything he knew about the farmhouse situation. "It was only a few days ago that I bought a dog for the boys. She was a rescue, I adopted her from a little shelter down the road…" he cleared his throat and started again. "I found her out in the barn. It was a cold morning, I called her for breakfast and she didn't come so I went out to look. I still had an EMF reader up in the closet. It's still functioning, for the most part. Anyways, the barn lit up. So that's why I called John."

It was hardly anything to go on. "Mind if Gabe and I take a look?"

"Be my guest, but the boys will be awake soon; so I would hurry if I were you. A few of them like to hang out there."

The snow outside had stopped falling by the time the pair had gotten both their boots and coats on. The barn was nearby. It was a large, red sentry in the center of Dean's property. Being an old inhabitant of the area, the inside was cold and drafty. Mostly the barn was used for mechanical storage and hay during the summer months.

Even though it was apparent that the interior had been deep cleaned since the dog's untimely demise, one could still smell the faint scent of the metal tang of blood; and, the floor still bore the dark circle of where she laid her final breath.

Gabe was the first to speak. "I didn't see you splash Dean with holy water," he commented, clearly unhappy.

"I slipped it into his beer when he wasn't looking," the hunter assured, already pulling out his own, completely functioning EMF meter. He tossed the former bartender an iron rod, which in turn was caught with ease.

A few minutes later, Sam was frowning down at the machinery of his own design. "There's nothing here. No EMF is showing up."

"So what killed the dog then, if it wasn't a ghost?"

"Maybe it was just a fox," Sam sighed. "There's just no sign of anything supernatural going on around here."

"We should still look around," the shorter man argued. "Dean's not exactly a sure shot anymore when it comes to hunting, but it wouldn't hurt to check."

Gabe was right; he was always right. He had been right about everything that had happened lately. They shouldn't have come; this wasn't Sam's fight. At the very most he should have sent another hunter to finish the job for him, but the hunter had wanted to see Dean again. That was his first mistake. If he had wanted to keep his older brother out of the mess that was his life, the best thing Sam could have done was stay as far away from the farmhouse as he could. In fact, nothing was stopping him from leaving right now.

The Winchester mentally debated with himself for a scratch moment. He could get in the Impala and head down the road, leaving the state. Sam could call another hunter in for the hunt, to smooth things over and assure his brother that nothing bad was happening on his property. In all truth, that would be what was best for the older Winchester.

But first and foremost; Sam loved his family. He wanted to make sure himself that there was nothing to worry about. So, being a good little hunter, the Winchester took up his EMF meter and an iron rod, and began to explore the rest of the old barn.

The hunter dug a spare meter from his backpack and handed it to the shorter man beside him. "If we split up, we'll cover more ground. I'll look around the attic, you sweep the ground floor."

The man in question nodded sharply. "Yes boss," he chuckled and headed in the opposite direction. Unfortunately, this was the first mistake of the day. The Winchester suddenly found himself alone.

The ladder into the attic of the hundred-year-old barn was rickety and full of termite damage. Sam, not being the lightest person in the world, nor the smallest, was very concerned that the entire structure was going to come down over him. By some inexplicable luck, he made it the entire way up to the next floor. As the trap door above him gave way, a plume of dust and hay rained down over him. It was as if no one had used the space in years.

Dim, cold light filtered through the boarded-up windows and onto the creaking floor, which was strewn with organic materials and miscellaneous cast-iron farming tools. The hunter heaved the rest of his body off of the ladder and came to rest in a clear spot on the attic floorboards. Even with the light coming in from the windows, most of the large attic was still shrouded in shadows, twists and turns around the hay bales were something almost out of _The Children of the Corn_.

The Winchester sighed. Why couldn't ghosts and spirits hide in a nice five-star hotel? Why did it always have to be creepy barns and abandoned shacks in the middle of the wilderness? He seriously hated his life.

Taking up his EMF meter, the hunter stalked as quietly as possible into the maze of dry straw, armed with only an iron rod and his bare fists; the second mistake of the day.

The air seemed stifling and dry. He could hear the wind shaking the barn to its foundations outside, but here in the attic it was hot, stale and smelled a little bit like something sulfuric that was slowly rotting. As he kept walking, rounding each and every hay bale, the hunter felt a change in his situation. Something was wrong here.

Sam took a moment to stop and listen. Everything seemed perfectly ordinary, and-

_Creak_ – there it was; something shifting over the flooring not too far from where he was standing now. The hunter's hand tightened on the iron rod. He peered around the corner from where he was now, but all he could see was the milky dark. Why hadn't he thought to bring a flashlight?

Instead of going back down the old ladder to get one, the hunter pulled all of his wits together and stepped forward into the obscuring blackness. The smell of rot seemed to get more potent with every step, and alarm bells rang in his head; but the Winchester didn't stop. He needed to get this situation sorted out soon or else he was at the risk of staying forever.

As the hunter approached the source of the movement, everything seemed to quiet down. He could no longer hear the wind, or the trembling of the barn. The Winchester could scarcely hear his own breathing.

_Creak_, another shift.

He couldn't see his own hand in front of his face. Twice already he had nearly bumped into the towers of straw around him. Finally, after what seemed like hours, the Winchester spotted a dim, flickering light up ahead. It seemed to wave and beckon him forward with every glint. He had a bad feeling about this; but there was no way he would retreat now. Also, Sam doubted he would be able to find his way back again.

So, the hunter closed in on the light; the last and largest mistake of the day.

Momentarily, Sam was blinded after being in the shadows so long. All he could see were blurry shapes sitting around what seemed to be an old oil lantern. They all stood suddenly when he appeared among them. The scent of rot seemed to be most potent in this new location.

"Who are you?" a cracked male voice spoke.

His eyes finally adjusted. A group of young teenage boys were upright, alarmed in a clearing among the bales of hay. They must be the teens that Dean warned him about, the ones who hung out in the barn frequently. The Winchester relaxed. It wasn't often at all that his hunter instincts were wrong about a situation. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time they had been incorrect.

"Uh, Sam. Who are _you_?" the hunter spouted.

Weirdly, the trio of boys relaxed and began to cackle. Either he had just stumbled upon some kind of strange teenage cult meeting, or something bad was going to happen within the next two minutes. In Sam's experience, it tended to be the latter of the two options; as much as he hated to admit it.

"Sam Winchester I take it," the tallest of the boys grinned, stepping around the Winchester to block the exit. The latter of Sam's two options prevails once again.

"You never answered my question," the Winchester shot back, his hand discreetly hiding the iron rod under the fabric of his utility jacket. In the low light of the oil lamp, Sam studied the kids. Each wore an almost feral smirk on their faces. The shadows splayed across their faces, making it difficult to see any features.

"We've been looking everywhere for you, Sam. Whoever it is that's been hiding you won't make any difference now," a pudgy boy looking to be about fifteen announced, as if the Winchester knew exactly what he was talking about. He didn't, for the record.

"Azazel sends his regards," the last teenager spoke, a triumphant look upon his acne-ridden face.

Azazel. That rang a few bells. The memories swooped down into Sam's field of vision like crows in a cornfield. In fact, looking back, it seemed to be the moment everything went wrong.

"…_You asked my name, and since I know yours, it's only fair that I tell you mine. My name is Azazel. I'm a demon," he said with a smile. Azazel stuck his hand out for Sam to shake, but then smirked wider when Sam just glared at him, still unable to move. He retracted his hand again._

"_Of course, it's just pure luck that I'm the first demon you officially meet. I just happened to be walking through this part of the factory when I noticed you sneaking around. You're quite lucky, really. Not many people even get to speak with me before they're dead."_

_Sam struggled a little harder._

"_I suppose that's enough of the small talk. Let's get down to the really important topics. First off, I think we'll start with you."_

"_Shut the fuck up," the Winchester roared._

"_TEMFer," Azazel chastised. "Like I said, you're special. In fact, I consider you my actual child; you're my blood, after all. Not that kind of blood," the demon exhaled, noticing the hunter's death-glare. "My blood."_

Feeling moderately sick, the hunter pulled out his rod and brandished it menacingly at the kids. "Look," he threatened, "It's been a long two weeks. Whatever Azazel wants from me, he can't have. I don't want to hurt any of you; so, why don't we all just leave?"

"I'd bet you would like that, Sam," the tallest chastised. "But do you really think you can get out of this so easily? It goes _so_ much deeper than you think."

The hunter's face was as hard as a rock, as if an artist had sculpted his stony expression out of the earth itself. No way was he going to let a demon get the upper hand on him, even if it did have a point. No, he would mull over the situation later. Now was the time for action.

"We know you know about the blood, but did you _really_ think that was the end of it? That maybe, you aren't a freak; just a misunderstood little soldier with daddy issues and an ignorable disease?" the pudgy boy taunted.

"What do you mean?" The Winchester asked reluctantly.

"You're the _Boy King_," the demon hissed excitedly with some kind of strange sadistic glee that made the hunter uncomfortable.

"Shut up," the acne-ridden demon growled. "We have what we came here for; no more than that."

"What do you mean, I'm the Boy King?" Sam questioned further while trying to discreetly look for an escape route.

Now, it was the demon's turn looked uncomfortable. Well, all except for the overweight one, who appeared as if the only thing he wanted to do was eat Sam alive and drenched in barbeque sauce.

"It is not for us to say," the tallest boy practically mumbled, as if cowed by the hunter's appearance.

"Enough with the questions! Let's just get on with it," acne-demon growled, cracking his knuckles in accent of every word he spoke. The hunter's stomach dropped as he realized that the trio was gearing for an attack. He had never fought a demon before, let alone three of them. He had no idea how strong they were, what abilities they had, or; if you could even _kill_ them.

He didn't have long to worry over it, because not moments later, the tallest of the three lashed out. Sam found himself flying backwards the short distance into the wall of hay behind him. He could hear the pudgy demon cackling at his downfall. The Winchester fell to the floor, where he quickly picked himself up and swung outwards with his iron rod at the nearest figure.

It was like striking the side of a house. The figure didn't budge an inch. Shock waves travelled painfully up his arms as they absorbed the shock of his rigid swipe. In fact, the only other reaction he got was the increased volume of cackling in the background. The hunter let out a huff of air. Instead of taking the fool's path and attacking again, he tried another tactic.

He began to chant what was hopefully an exorcism from the book Delphine had given him so long ago. He really hoped that she had come through on her demon research. "Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas-"

"Shit, how does he know that? You said this would be easy!" The pudgy boy snarled at his twitching friends.

"Let's just go. We're done here, right?" the tallest demon groaned.

Suddenly, he was alone, and the smell of rot and sulfur was gone with them. He felt shaken, what had they meant by Boy King? What had the demons come here to do? What else could there _possibly_ be that he didn't know? As if he thought his life couldn't get any worse. Maybe he should just stop saying that all together, because it really, _really_ could.

Somehow, Sam always ended up with more questions than answers, more regrets than accomplishments, and more angst than happiness. With one last sweeping glance over the clearing, the Winchester picked up the sputtering oil lamp and began to trudge down the labyrinth of straw bales and back towards Gabe and his older brother.

ooo

"Sam, where have you been? I've been looking all over for you! There wasn't anything out of the ordinary down here, so I went to find you. What happened?" Gabe asked, noticing the downcast look on the hunter's face.

"It was a group of demons. They should be gone now; I quadruple checked the attic for any sign of them."

"Demons?" the former bartender exclaimed.

Gabriel was shocked. Ever since he had known that the spawn of Hell had been tailing Sam, he had gone out of his way to keep them off of their butts. At first, it had been mostly to cover his own trail; but now, he just wanted to keep the poor, unfortunate kid safe. Admittedly, he had grown lax over the reasonably uneventful months in checking each area they arrived at. These demons must have known to shield their presence, which also meant that they were somewhat aware of his sentry duty.

That meant if that information was passed along to the right people in the right places; they were pretty much as screwed as you can get. The pair would have Heaven and Hell breathing down their necks in no time, and Gabriel had spent the majority of his time preventing this exact scenario.

"Azazel sent them," Sam admitted.

Well shit. They were the dog's chew toy now.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18: End of the Beginning

ooo

To say the least, Sam was anxious over how Dean would take the news that he had been harboring demons for who-knows-how long on his property. In fact, he had no idea how to break the news to his older brother that demons actually existed, let alone convince him of the fact. Gabe was quiet and trailing behind him, looking contemplative. The hunter left him alone to his thoughts.

Dirty and bruised, Sam paused a moment before entering the house. Should he knock again? Would it seem rude and egotistical if he just barged into the farmhouse? After only a moment of hesitation, he took the safe route and pounded on the front door, waiting for a response.

It didn't take long for Dean a disgruntled Dean to answer. "Sam? Why didn't you just- Hey, what the Hell happened to you? Did you fall down a flight of stairs?" he exclaimed, trying to keep the atmosphere light.

The pair stepped inside and shrugged off their boots and coats. "You may want to sit down for this, Dean," Sam huffed in pain as he removed his arm from a sleeve.

The older man looked wary and startled, but he complied, leading both his younger brother and friend to the living room where they had been sitting not too long before.

"So what's this about, Sam? What happened to you? You guys only left about an hour ago," the shorter Winchester frowned as he sat down in a worn, yellow armchair.

"Dean, you're not going to like what I'm about to tell you. Don't freak out, okay?" The hunter asked, strangely serious.

"Usually when you tell people that, they, they do the opposite of not freaking out."

Gabe snickered lightly in the background, and Sam ignored him.

"Okay… Here it is; demons are real."

Dean laughed, leaning over himself to clasp the hunter roughly on the shoulder. "I can take it, dude. Just tell me; stop kidding around."

The younger Winchester grimaced and took a deep breath. "I'm not being funny, Dean. Demons are real."

Everyone was quiet for a moment. The only sound was the fire in front of them, and the light, frigid wind outside; along with the distant shouts of teenage boys. The older Winchester looked as if he was on the verge of cracking a joke, until he noticed the expression on Sam's face. He crinkled his eyebrows in confusion, as if to say; _you've got to be freaking kidding me._

"Demons," the older man started slowly. "As in, out of the _bible_ demons? Or are we talking angst-y satanic cult demons here?"

Sam shifted in his seat, uncomfortable. This was pretty much the last thing he had wanted to tell Dean, the list only ending with the phrase "demon blood". At this point, Sam could only hope that his older brother would have the sense to keep out of the hunting lifestyle and stick to his well-founded, domestic job. "Bible demons," he stated in monotone.

"Those creatures are more than just the plague of humanity," Gabe grumbled, "they're damn annoying too."

The older Winchester let out a suffering sigh. "Crap. I don't believe it," he muttered to himself, running a hand over his suddenly sallow face. "What are they like?"

"Just like you'd expect; cruel, evil, black eyes, and stronger than anything I've ever had the displeasure of hunting?" Sam reiterated, ticking off each characteristic in his head. With each syllable, the shorter Winchester seemed more and more determined, as if he had just decided something important and was only growing surer of himself every second. This, above all else, scared the crap out of Sam.

"Sam-" he paused, still taking in the fact that demons existed, and apparently had an affinity for his little brother. He was undoubtable beating himself up over his decision to leave him in exchange for the farm life, of all things. "I shouldn't have left. I'm sorry."

An apology was the last thing the hunter was expecting. "You have nothing to be sorry for!" He spluttered. "It wasn't your responsibility to look after me. I'm glad you left, actually. You deserved better than the life."

"But it _was_ my responsibility to look after you!" his sibling insisted. "That's what older brothers do. Even if that wasn't true, someone had to, and dad certainly wasn't going to do it."

"I think I'll leave you two alone for a minute," the Winchester brothers heard the former bartender announce, but they were so engrossed in their conversation, only Sam gave the shortest man a friendly parting nod. With that, he left the room, leaving the brothers alone.

"Look, Dean; I'm glad that if one of us got out of hunting, it was you. Frankly, you deserve more. I'm friggin' _elated_ that you got out."

"Bullshit Sam! I shouldn't have left you to John, that… _tyrant."_

"John did the best he could."

"Don't you feed me that crap that you've been feeding yourself. Dad could have done better if he had wanted to. In fact, I remember when he _was _a father. Not the thing he turned himself into on the road."

At that, Sam let out a quiet snort. Dean didn't know the half of it. The John he experienced before his older brother left was tame compared to what he became. After Dean's departure, dad engrossed himself in finding two things; Mary's killer, and every evil son-of-a-bitch on the face of the Earth. They would drive a week across the country to investigate even the smallest sign of the supernatural. John apparently lost any interest in Sam, apart from pouring hunting knowledge into his head like some sort of all-retaining bucket. Dad was wounded and broken beyond repair, the life had consumed him.

"Screw dad," Sam said quietly. "If you could get out, then it was good enough for me. Don't beat yourself up over this. If I could re-do everything, I wouldn't change a damn thing."

The older man seemed slightly cowed, but not beaten. "What the hell happened to you?"

The hunter froze at the question. "What?"

Dean clarified. "How did you become so self-sacrificing? Why don't you care about yourself? Don't deny it; it's written across your face."

There were many reasons, he imagined. Sam Winchester, the boy with the demon blood, the Boy King –whatever that meant- just wasn't worth being saved. In some ways, the taller Winchester brother was worse than the things he had hunted before. There had been instances in the past where Sam had questioned his place on the great scale of good and evil. Sure, a few months ago he was no worse than a common murderer; not exactly burn in Hell forever sort of material, or the lowest of the low. But holy shit he had _demon blood_ in him. That _literally_ earmarks him for eternal damnation.

To be honest, it freaked the hunter out more than anything else he'd faced. Because he can't run from it, he can't fix it, and he can't _deal with it._

"Sam?"

The hunter snapped out of his trance. "It doesn't matter," he answered.

The next thing Sam noticed was the look of anger that crossed Dean's face. "God damnit Sam, why won't you _talk_ to me? It's like someone replaced my little brother with a freaking brick wall. You won't tell me what happened to John, you won't tell me anything about the past ten years except the basics, you won't talk about yourself… why are you hiding?"

"I am not hiding," Sam lied.

"Oh yeah," Dean snorted, clearly not convinced. "Well then tell me about your friend, Gabe? You've avoided speaking about yourself, so why not avoid talking about him too?"

"What do you want to know?" the hunter asked, cautiously defiant.

"He told me he's a specialist. What the hell does that mean?"

A particularly hard gust of wind shook the house. Sam could see the early winter sun begin to set already. "He specializes in hunting, sort of like a walking encyclopedia of all things weird," the hunter said, a small amount of mirth in his voice as he recounted Gabe telling him just the same. "I met him through a friend of mine."

"So like Bobby?" Dean asked, calming down slightly.

"Bobby…?" Sam questioned, confused.

"Bobby Singer?"

Sam could have slapped himself. "Oh, right. That's a name I haven't heard of in a while."

The older Winchester seemed surprised. "I haven't seen or heard from him in years, but I would have thought you have, hunting and all. He was like a second father to us; what happened?"

He shrugged. "We just haven't been in touch, I guess. I know Bobby still hunts. Or, at least he helps the hunters anyway. He might be too old to do much now except advise. I wouldn't doubt he could still kick your butt, though. Watch out," the hunter laughed lightly.

Dean threw his brother a mock-scowl. "Bitch," he announced suddenly.

Sam did a double take. "Why do you call me a bitch?" he asked, baffled.

At this, the older Winchester deflated. "You're supposed to say 'jerk'," he muttered.

"Why?"

At that very moment, Gabe reentered the room, chewing on a chocolate Hershey's bar he had gotten from who-knows where. He stopped in his tracks when all attention was turned towards him. "Did I just walk in on something?"

"No," Sam answered.

"Did you two catch up yet? Because, older, more annoying Winchester, you seem to have run out of chocolate and I have no idea why. I was wondering if you have any more hidden around here somewhere."

"You ate all the chocolate? I was going to make a pie with that stuff!" Dean groaned, feeling the need to get up and strangle the smirking former bartender, who had just finished the last of the candy bar and was wiping his hands off on his jeans. "You're a dick," he groaned instead.

"I never denied it," Gabe quipped, taking a seat next to Sam on the couch. For a moment, the hunter felt he should move over and give the shorter man more room, because the couch itself wasn't very large at all, and he had sat down pretty much right next to him; but, he eventually decided against it. There just didn't seem to be a need.

"So what now?" Gabe asked after a moment.

"You two could stay here for the night in the guestroom," Dean suggested. "You guys don't have to leave right away…"

"No," the younger Winchester said immediately. "That isn't an option," he vetoed without a second thought. Both the shorter man and the older Winchester threw him a confused look; Dean's questioning and hiding hurt, and the former bartender's as if he was trying to figure out why.

"Would you excuse us for a moment?" Gabe asked kindly, which was Sam's first clue as to how he was most likely about to receive an earful. Without waiting for a response, the other man took a fistful of Sam's plaid shirt and dragged him into another room; a cheery office space.

"What's your problem? First you moan about your brother, and now all of a sudden you can hardly stand to look at him? It makes no sense to me, so how about explaining?" the former bartender asked.

Sam sighed, knowing Gabe well enough to realize that he would not give up until he received a satisfactory answer. "I need to keep him as far away from hunting as I can, which means that he can't _know _me," he explained, a depressed note in his otherwise even voice.

"Why do you want to keep him out of your life so bad, kiddo?"

The hunter scowled at his friend. "I'm not doing this for _me_, Gabe. I'm doing it for Dean's sake. For one, I think it would be best for everyone to stay away from me. Who knows how the blood is going to change me? Secondly, once you start hunting, you're in it for life. It's either get out early –like Dean- or die. I'm not going to be the one to drag him back into the life. Happy?"

"You poor, damaged kid. I wish I could convince you that you are worth something, Samsquatch," the former bartender sighed, managing to pull the Winchester in for a quick hug. Sam's initial reaction was _what the heck_, but it melted into a feeling of _this is kind of nice, I could get use to this_.

All too soon; according to the hunter, they pulled apart. "Thanks, I guess," Sam mumbled. "It's refreshing to know that there is still someone out there who cares, even if it is just a little. I'm glad I haven't freaked you out enough yet to scare you off."

"It'll take _way_ more than that to get rid of me, Sammy."

They stood in a comfortable silence for a minute. This is when the hunter took another look at his only and best friend. This is the man who he had met by chance in a lonely bar after his father disappeared. This is the man who turned out to be a hunting specialist, a coworker of Ellen Harvelle no less. This is the man who turned out to have all the information. At best, this man was a suspicious enigma. But for some reason, Sam didn't care. Yes, he would still try his hardest to figure out everything he could, but there was no rush. He trusted Gabe.

"So what's the plan then, Sam-I-Am?"

He thought for a minute. "We can't stay much longer."

"I suppose this is for Dean's benefit, too," Gabe sounded.

"Not as much for him as it is for me. We need to get out of here before I end up staying forever, if you know what I mean," the Winchester said ruefully. At that, the other man nodded, an almost-pitying look aimed at Sam, and he was grateful when it slipped off his face quickly.

The taller man pondered for a minute. "Let me talk to Dean."

"So what should I do then?" Gabe asked, childishly put-out that he wasn't to be included in Sam's plan.

"Wait in the car."

He huffed in displeasure. "Fine, but don't you dare be long, or I'll hide your IPod jack and you'll never find it again."

The Winchester laughed. "Duly noted. See you in a few." Gabe stuck his tongue out one last time and departed the room, heading for the locked Impala as Sam fingered the keys from within his jeans pocket. There was absolutely no doubt that he would regret this moment in the future.

The hunter exited the space, heading towards the living room where his older brother still undoubtable waited. He was right; the older man was still slumped deep into the worn armchair, staring off into space as he thought about things unknown to his little brother. He cleared his throat, catching Dean's attention.

"Back so soon?" he asked sarcastically.

"We're leaving," the hunter said bluntly.

"What? You just got here this morning!" his older brother spluttered. "You can't go already."

"Why not? I did what we came here to do, and we talked and caught up for a while," Sam argued lightly, combing one hand through his hair and shoving the other into a pocket.

"I haven't seen you in _ten years_ that's why! You can't just show up for a few hours and then leave!" he protested, standing up in frustration. He took a few steps towards the hunter, but he suddenly stopped. "I see what you're doing. You're still hiding something from me, and you're going to leave before you accidentally tell me."

"You're being paranoid, Dean. I got a call a few days ago about another hunt down in Virginia and we've already put it off long enough," Sam lied.

The older Winchester was still furious enough to shoot lasers through ten feet of concrete, but he couldn't stop Sam from leaving. It didn't mean that he wasn't still pissed about the entire situation, however. "Fine. If you need to go that bad, at least promise me you'll call every so often for a status update. I don't like not knowing if you're alive or dead," the man sighed, his expression dropping dangerously close to brooding. "But, if you don't call, I'll find you and I'll drag you back here whether you like it or not. _That's_ a promise."

He supposed that was the best he would get out of his brother, even if they argued over it all day long. "I promise," he grunted unwillingly. Dean, seemingly satisfied, nodded his consent for Sam's departure. But before the taller man could move, he found himself being dragged into another hug. As Dean crushed him, it took a few seconds for the hunter to realize he needed to hug back. The brothers embraced for a few moments more before Sam pulled away.

Dean sighed. "I'll see you sometime," he not so much said as commanded.

The taller man nodded, pacifying his brother. "Goodbye, Dean," he said before turning and leaving to where he came. While Sam completely intended to avoid his brother at all costs –for his own good; of course- he had the strangest feeling that they would be seeing more of one another very, very soon.

Quickly, the Winchester shrugged on his jacket and boots before bustling out the front door and towards the snow-strewn Impala; his boots making loud crunches in the icy snow as he trudged forward. Almost immediately, he caught Gabe's death-glare. Smiling as if he had no idea why he was receiving such a glance, he dug the keys out of his pocket and unlocked the car.

"You're a piece of work, kiddo," the former bartender hissed, swinging his moderately cooperative, frozen limbs into the passenger seat.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," the hunter laughed.

You better watch your back, or else the next thing you know; _bam!_ You're six feet under."

The hunter chuckled while starting the old Impala, pulling down the white driveway and not sparing the farmhouse a last look. Gabe cranked up the heat as far as it would go; the old Legos that Sam had crammed years ago in it rattling heartwarmingly. Despite all of the familiarity, Sam couldn't help but feel that something had changed in the short day they had spent at his older brother's house. Whether it was for the better or worse, the Winchester hadn't the slightest clue.

ooo

The pair drove aimlessly west for the rest of the night and well into the next day, stopping only for gas station bathrooms and to restock the small cooler Sam kept in the backseat filled with health food. Eventually, Gabe had a mental breakdown over the lack of junk, and forced Sam to stop at a tiny, ramshackle diner in the middle of nowhere. The place seemed to be sitting half on a lake, the path inside being literally a small pier. The weather seemed to have warmed up slightly, because it was now mostly raining with the added addition of slushy hail.

"I'll be right back, okay?" the hunter told his despondent friend.

"Don't forget the chocolate!" the shorter man called out as the hunter ambled towards the building. Gabriel sat back and relaxed in his seat, turning up whatever horrible song was blasting on the radio. He breathed a sigh of contentment.

And that's when it all went to shit.

First, it was the radio. The machine began to hum and crackle with static. In all honesty, the Archangel should have realized that something was wrong at that exact moment, but he only tapped the dashboard in irritation. A few seconds later, the static dissipated and the trickster sat back again. He looked up towards the diner and in the windows to check on the progress of his –dare he say it?- best friend. Thus, was the end of the beginning and the beginning of the end, both figuratively and literally.

The hunter was nowhere to be seen. In fact, all the building's patrons seemed to have disappeared. Gabriel leapt out of his seat faster than he could have ever imagined. The world tilted, and suddenly an Archangel graced the presence of the ratty, old diner out in the middle of nowhere.

Everyone was dead. A man was hunched over his french fries, a pool of blood puddled around him. Behind the counter was a similar scene; a man and woman's necks slit and their lifeless eyes staring out into oblivion. The Winchester, vessel of Lucifer and Boy King, was gone. Gabriel hardy even felt a twinge of relief that he was not among the dead.

"Sam!" he shouted into the empty room, as if his friend would answer.

And so began the beginning of the end.


	19. Chapter 19

**Author's Note (Please Read!)**

**As you all well know, I don't write author's notes unless I have something worthwhile to say. This time, I'd like to ask you all if you would drop me a comment or PM describing where you want the book to go; as well with some stuff you'd like to see, or ideas you may have had. Lately I've been running on empty with inspiration, and writing is turning into a chore. I only want to post my best work for you all, and I just don't think I can do that anymore. Thanks for reading, it means the world to me!**

Chapter 19: The Beginning of the End

ooo

The ground was wet when Sam came to; wet, hard and cold. He sat up, blinking in the overcast light of the sky. His head hurt, and there was a nasty smell in the back of his nose, a lingering scent that reminded him of something he couldn't quite put his finger on. It was drizzling rain, and the air felt cold and musty, almost like he had stepped into an old, stagnant store.

The hunter climbed to his feet, his head spinning, but he refused to stumble. Once he stopped seeing everything in doubles, he examined his surroundings. He was standing in the middle of a weed-filled, shanty town that looked better suited to be in an old western flick than real life. The buildings were water damaged and looked to be filled with termites and mold, but seemed to be holding together fairly well.

"Gabe?" he called out into the quiet air, hoping to hear an answer. Unfortunately, there was none. The Winchester set his jaw, determined not to be disheartened by the lack of events. He headed towards the buildings, set on finding someone.

Most of the shops were locked tight. He tried an entire street and no luck. As the hunter neared the end of the first row, he heard the shuffling of feet, panicked and skittish. Sam looked around quickly for a weapon, only finding a fallen plank of wood from one of the storefronts. He picked it up, throwing its weight over his shoulder and pressing his back against the wall. The shuffling grew closer. The hunter clenched his jaw, biding his time.

A figure appareled around the bend, and Sam threw all he had into his swing. The only thing that could have stopped him was Andy Gallagher's cry of panic and his arms thrown into the air to protect his head. With a momentous effort, the hunter rerouted his swing and the log landed on the ground with a pitiful _thunk_.

"_Andy?"_ the Winchester exclaimed, taking a closer look at the recovering man.

"_Sam?"_ the shorter man exclaimed, looking on the verge of a mental breakdown. "What are you _doing_ here?"

"I don't know; what are _you _doing here?" The Winchester pried, not quite certain yet that this wasn't some kind of elaborate dream.

"I don't know," Andy exclaimed, "What am _I _doing here?" he asked, waving his arms around, motioning to himself. The psychic looked like he was about to burst a vein.

Sam tried to keep him calm, but Andy was hysterical. "Where a_re we?!"_

"Andy, get a hold of yourself!" The hunter insisted, but the other man only scoffed, panicking.

"I just woke up in _friggin' frontierland!"_ he said, hands covering his eyes as he attempted to work through the situation.

"Okay," the Winchester counseled, trying to find out more of what had happened. One minute he was buying candy from a shanty, waterlogged diner, the next he wakes up in the middle of nowhere in a small, decomposing town. Somehow, he felt as if the area was familiar. But, no matter how hard he tried to remember where he was, the location evaded him. "What's the last thing you remember?" he said instead.

Huffing, Andy's hands moved to the top of his head. "Honestly? My fourth bong load."

Unbelievable; he was looking for something to say, but Andy was still talking. "It was weird, all of a sudden; there was this really… intense smell. Like…"

It suddenly struck Sam what he had scented earlier. "Like sulfur?" he tried, looking at the other man for any sign of recognition.

"Exactly," the psychic said, mystified. They both stood there for a quiet moment, going over the new insight. Their silence was broken by a scream on the wind. Both of their head's snapped in the direction of the shouting. The voice screamed again, coupled by the distinct pounding on wood. Sam was running in their direction before he could even think to warn Andy.

"Hello?" Sam yelled, nearing an old, wooden shed a street away. The psychic trailed behind him, looking like he wanted to help, but wasn't sure how. The screaming continued from within the structure, and the banging only grew louder.

"_Help! Oh god, help me_!" the voice cried.

"Okay, okay, okay. We're here; we're going to get you out in a second. Just hold on, alright?" the hunter announced. Sam looked around for something to break the lock on the door with, finding a suitable rock on the ground. He picked it up, and slammed it down on the door handle, effectively releasing the trapped person inside. The Winchester pulled the door open, revealing a short girl with mousy brown hair; tears streaming down her face.

"Oh, _thank you!" _she exclaimed, suddenly running into his arms and hugging him tightly. Sam flinched, but managed to pull himself together in enough time to pat her back awkwardly. "I just woke up in there about a half an hour ago; I thought I was going to die!" she babbled.

"Uh, you're alright now. You're safe. What's your name?"

Sniffling, the girl lessened her grip, allowing the hunter to pry her from his chest. "Ava Wilson," she said, wheezing slightly. "What the heck is going on here?"

"Yeah, I think I want to know that too," Andy chimed in.

Apparently, Ava hadn't noticed him until that moment, because she gave him a weird look. "Andy," he introduced himself with a short wave. "Also freaking out," he added in a small voice. Ava nodded absently, not really listening to what had just been said.

"What's _happening?"_ she asked.

"I don't really know yet, but I'm going to find out," the Winchester assured both of them. His voice was soothing and calm like he was working another case. That's all this really was, wasn't it? One more case, only slightly closer to home and more dangerous; but still just another case. He stifled the bad feeling deep within himself, and decided at that moment; he would do all he could to help these people get out of here alive.

Sam thought for a moment. If Andy was here, it couldn't be a coincidence. He wasn't sure how Ava fell into any of this, but there was almost definitely a reason. There must be something special about her as well.

"Ava," he asked the girl. He wasn't sure exactly how to ask this, but he plowed onwards anyways. "Is there anything… weird about you? Maybe strange dreams you've had, impossible things that you didn't think were possible?"

She threw him the same look she had given the other psychic a minute ago. Like as if she was saying _are you actually for real?_ "I've had dreams where people die, but what's that have anything to do with this? They were just dreams, as in, not real."

She was a psychic too. Sam's heart seemed to drop. There was some deeper purpose to the demons gathering them here. But why? What did they want with any of them? There was only one sure fact; he was probably in _way_ over his head. "Ava, listen to me. Those dreams, I have them too."

"What? What do you mean?"

"They're real; everyone you dreamed about was real."

For some reason, she seemed to believe him. She looked at the ground, the tears starting to well up again. "Does that mean… they actually _died_? All of them?"

The hunter felt a painful clench in his stomach, telling her this. She seemed too innocent, much too kind to be dragged into this. But, it was too late to worry about that. She was in it until the end, it seemed. "Most likely," he said in the most neutral voice he could muster.

She burst into waterworks. "I saw _Brady_ die! My fiancé is dead!" she wailed, somehow finding her way into Sam's arms again. This time he was more prepared. He wrapped both arms around her lightly, allowing her to calm down when she was ready. Andy suddenly became very interested in examining a tree.

Ava got a hold of herself quickly, much to everyone's relief. She wiggled out of the hunter's embrace and dried her face with a sleeve. As the Winchester watched her, she met his eyes for a split second; her gaze was cold and calculating, almost like a feral predator. He must be more out of it than he thought. He looked again, but she still appeared heartbroken; miserable, but normal. He didn't get much time to ponder this again.

"Hello? Is anyone else out here?" a distinctively male voice asked from somewhere in the distance. There were more psychics? How many had the demons created? Instead of trying to answer this, Sam only motioned for Ava and Andy to follow him towards the voice. "Come on," he said.

It didn't take long for the trio to find the owner of the unknown voice. It was a dark, imposing man wearing a military uniform and a quiet blonde girl, whose arms were folded tightly across her chest. "Are you guys alright?" The hunter asked as he jogged up to the pair.

"Think so," the military guy answered, looking shrewdly at the hunter.

"I'm Sam," the Winchester said.

"Jake," the tall man answered.

The blonde girl took a step forward, her arms still folded tightly. "I'm Lily," she said in a musical voice.

"Are there any more of you?" the hunter asked. Jake shook his head no.

"How did we even get here? A minute ago I was in San Diego," Lily inquired, looking between Sam and Jake.

"That seems to be the golden question," Andy jumped in.

"If it makes you feel any better, I fell asleep last night in Afghanistan," Jake told the crowd, looking equal parts relieved and stoic. Sam watched Ava's eyebrows shoot upward in disbelief.

Sam took advantage of the momentary lapse in conversation. "I have an idea, why we're all here," he started. Everyone turned their attention towards him. "We all have… special things we can do. Impossible things that started not too long ago…?"

"I can make people do things," Andy said excitedly. "And, I've been practicing, so now I can make them see images whenever I want," he exclaimed. "Like, there was this one guy –total dick- so I made him see gay porn; all hours of the day." Everyone fell into an awkward silence. Sam felt bad for him, he was so excited. At the same time, he really wished that he hadn't announced that.

"I have premonitions of people's deaths," the hunter said, effectively dispersing the previous moment.

Ava nodded, "Me too. It's kind of terrifying."

"That's not fair!" Lily suddenly exploded, "When I touch people, their hearts _stop._ I accidentally touched my _girlfriend!_" she hissed, unwinding one delicate hand from in front of her and holding it up in the air. "I'd give a lot just to watch people die."

Sam took a few steps forward to comfort her. "I've lost people too," he said quietly. "But right now we need to stick together."

"Shouldn't we be trying to get out of here?" she asked, still unsure of the hunter.

"We need to know what's going on before we do anything else," he assured everyone. Jake, however, looked unconvinced.

"You're not telling us everything. What is it?" the military man asked.

The Winchester sighed. "I think I know what brought us here," he frowned, hoping that they would believe what he was about to tell them. "It's not good, either."

"Just tell us," Ava insisted.

"Listen," he started, "I think the thing that kidnapped all of us is a… demon."

Silence. The only thing to be heard was the sprinkle of rain on the ground, the desolate sound of crickets in the damp, abandoned woods around the town, and the unsure cough Andy gave.

"A demon," Lily repeated.

"I know it seems unlikely or impossible even. But I've been hunting these things all my life. They are real."

"This is crazy," Jake scoffed. "_You're_ crazy."

"Think about it. How did you suddenly find yourself on the other side of the Earth in one night? Not to mention how we all have… abilities," Sam insisted, sparing a glance at Lily when he mentioned the word 'abilities'. However, she looked too shell shocked to be listening. _A small mercy_, he thought.

"I don't have time for this," the military man said, turning to leave.

"Jake! We need to stay together!" He called after him, but the tall man did not stop his purposeful stride. Sam huffed in frustration. They didn't have time for this; he needed to find everyone a defensible spot before night fell. That's when things usually went down the drain, according to his experience.

"We need to follow him," he told the group. No one really wanted to put up an argument. They all rushed after the man. Up ahead, they watched Jake enter what looked to be an abandoned schoolhouse. Undoubtedly, he was walking straight into a trap. Sam doubled his pace.

ooo

Gabriel couldn't find Sam anywhere.

He really should have known that someone would find out he was shielding the Winchester, especially after the Azazel incident. Saving Sam had probably cost him the entire Earth, but he couldn't just stand by and watch that demon tear into him. He just couldn't.

Azazel had known to an extent what he was, the last time they had met. But the Archangel had taken care to conceal his identity with his Loki cover. By no account should anyone know that Gabriel the Archangel was still alive. If anyone found out, Heaven and Hell would quite literally rain down upon him. Azazel must have alerted his creepy minions that someone was watching over the vessel, and had set up a trap accordingly.

Essentially, if the apocalypse began over a stupid mistake; he'd be pissed as hell.

Gabriel was currently somewhere in the sky between Montana and Colorado, scouring the ground for any sign of Sam. If it was the last thing he did, he would save the Winchester. He owed him that, at least. It absolutely had nothing to do with his admittedly intense attachment to the tall moose of a man.

At this rate, he'd find the Winchester within a week or so. The trickster sighed heavily. That was much too long. Sam would likely be dead or worse by then. Wheeling his wings to the east, he headed to the one place he knew he would find help. In less than a blink, Gabriel found himself standing on a familiar porch in the center of a familiar farm. Wind whipped at the Archangel's coat. Hard, cold snow stung his face, turning it a wet, pink color. The man knocked on the eldest Winchester's door, rapping hard enough to wake up anyone inside, were they sleeping.

A moment later, a confused Dean Winchester answered the door, only to become more confused seeing who was pounding so early in the morning. "Gabe? What the hell are you doing here? Didn't and you and Sam leave a few days ago?"

"Sam's missing you useless sack," he explained shortly.

"_What_? How?" the taller man exclaimed.

"Remember those demons? I'll bet you they followed us, and then kidnapped Sam when they could. I can't find him anywhere. I need your help."

Dean's face paled. "Sure, come inside. I'll get my stuff together," he told the Archangel, leaving the door open and rushing up the stairs. The trickster was about to step inside when he remembered it would probably be suspicious if he didn't have the Impala with him. Snapping his fingers, the vintage, black car appeared in the driveway, along with the appropriate tire tracks in the snow. Feeling a little bit better, the pagan god stepped inside the household.

He sat down heavily into the loveseat where he had been sitting a few days before. With Dean helping him, he'd likely be able to pull out a few old hunter contacts. With more people, they'd hopefully be able to find the youngest Winchester within the day. Gabriel groaned, feeling all too powerless.

Suddenly, Dean appeared, dragging a small duffle bag behind him. "I've put someone in charge, so we're set to go. There's an old bar in Nebraska I can get a hold of. Guy named Ash should be able to track down Sam."

"Ash? Why didn't I think to ask him?" he scowled at the floor.

"You know him?"

"Yeah, but now's not the time to bring out the skeletons in the closet. We need to move. Call Ash on the way, I'll drive."

Dean nodded, heading towards the front door. The Archangel followed suit.

ooo

Sam swung at the Acheri, a demon masquerading as a little girl, with an iron bar he had found by the wood burner against the front wall. He was just in time; the girl was lunging at a surprised Jake, intent on ripping him limb from limb with her claw-like fingers and teeth. With a less than dramatic transition into a cloud of black smoke, the Acheri swept from the room and out the door.

"That was a demon, just so you know," Sam sighed. "That's _also_ why we should stick together." Having said that, the hunter too left the room and returned to the group. Andy looked like he was having another mental breakdown, Lily look as if her entire life's purpose was now devoted to getting the hell out of dodge, and Ava was breathing erratically again.

"So demons are… real?" Andy asked slowly.

Sam nodded grimly. "I'm sorry you had to get involved in all of this."

"So what now?" Jake asked, emerging from the dilapidated school house. He looked no worse for wear, the only change being how he looked at Sam like he was no longer insane.

"We find a place to hole down for the night, find salt and iron if we can."

"Shouldn't we be trying to get out of here?" Lily insisted.

"I doubt the demons wants us to leave. There are miles of woods around us; we would never make it. No, the best thing we can do right now is stay together and try to make it through the night," the hunter thought out loud.

The blonde didn't look convinced, but she nodded jerkily all the same. He looked to Jake, who stood quietly watching the scene play out in front of him. "You and I will go look for iron, there will probably be some on the outskirts of the town in a barn if we can find one. The rest of you look for salt and a place that looks like it won't fall down on our heads."

They each departed, all shaken deeply but determined to make it through the night.


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20: One Step Forward, A Thousand Steps Back

ooo

It was getting dark by the time Jake and Sam found the rest of the group, excluding Lily, camped out in a shanty, old townhouse. It was probably the only building in the town that still had an entire roof and wall structure. The townhouse was two stories, if you counted what was left of the second floor. It smelled like stale animal droppings and sulfur, and the rooms were painted a dreary crème color. The air was so thick and clogged with dust it was like wading through a sandstorm. Andy had found a stash of salt bags in a rotted chest, which Sam was now spreading in a circle around the perimeter of the area.

Jake dropped the last of the iron rods they had pilfered from a nearby barn in the corner of the room. He gave the hunter a small nod. Ava and Andy were holding a quiet conversation on the far end of the room. Lily must have been nearby.

"Alright," the Winchester began, straightening into a standing position from where he had been crouched pouring salt. He walked over to the newly-made pile of iron weapons and picked up the one on top. "This is iron; it repels certain demons and ghosts."

"Naturally," Andy sighed, running a hand over his face.

Ava looked at the iron rod with a spark of interest. "Why does it do that?" she asked, a small frown plastered on her face.

The hunter felt a touch of uneasiness, but answered her anyways. "In some folklore, people compare it to human blood, which smells like iron," he mused, "and blood is what keeps us alive. " Ava nodded, her hands buried in her jacket pockets. She turned to look out the window thoughtfully. He turned his attention to the other psychic.

"How does that even make sense?" Andy quipped, looking strained and pale.

Nothing in the supernatural world really made sense, except for one rule of thumb. That being, if it's evil; kill it. Sam has lived by that rule for his entire life, and he was still alive. That has to count for something.

Jake jumped in, saving Sam from having to formulate a plausible explanation. "I just wouldn't think about it," the man said. "I try not to."

The scruffy psychic nodded absently. Suddenly, he perked up. "Lily isn't back yet; she said she'd be right back."

Both he and Jake exchanged a look. Sam had a bad feeling about this; like something big was coming over the horizon and he couldn't see it yet. With a heavy feeling in his gut, he began to head outside, intent on searching for the apparently missing blonde psychic. But before he could walk out, the tall man in the army uniform pulled him aside.

"I see what you're doing," Jake said quietly, leaning in slightly.

The hunter was confused. "What do you mean?"

"Keeping everyone calm?" Jake elaborated, as if they were on the same page. "But what I can't understand is why _you're_ so calm? I've been in some deep shit before, but it's almost like you _live_ in deep shit," the darker man inquired with a smooth bass voice. "I've never seen anything like it."

Sam's face dropped into a grim display of barely covered pain. "It's my job to clean out the dregs of humanity, so I'm bound to get some of the dirt on myself as well," he said lowly, evading giving an actual answer.

Jake's lips turned downwards, and he gave the Winchester a hard look. He considered him for a moment, like he was looking for something specific. After a few seconds, Jake spoke. "Whatever you've been through, you should at least know that no one else would have to go through whatever you have. I can tell you've done a whole lot of good, so I want you to stop focusing on the bad," the other man counseled, "So at least can say you have that, most people can't."

His speech had hit close to home. Sam looked away and towards the other two people in the room. Andy was digging through a cabinet and Ava seemed to be concentrating on something outside. Neither of them deserved to be here, but he could still save them. After all, that's why he was here, wasn't it? His very existence was devoted towards the innocent. As long as he did that, what else mattered?

If he got mud on him while carrying the population to safety across the proverbial swamp of evil, it was okay. Because it was on _him_ and not _them_.

"We should look for Lily before it gets dark," Sam said eventually. Jake seemed disappointed somehow, but did not comment. "Come on," he announced to their impromptu group. "Let's go find her. She can't be far." The hunter remembered how eager she had seemed to get away from the town. At this point, the only thing he could do was to hope she had enough common sense not to pursue that particular course of action and had stayed close.

And boy was he right about the latter. They had hardly stepped outside when Ava let out a scream. Hanging from the broken windmill was the body of Lily; and from her neck a cord of rope tied her to the structure like a gruesome Christmas ornament. She looked pale and small from his vantage point on the porch. There was no doubt in the Winchester's mind that she had tried to escape. Unless help came, or all the demons spontaneously died, they were well and truly trapped here.

"I'll get her down," Jake muttered, walking towards the windmill with purpose. "You all can go back inside, I won't be long."

Sam didn't move as Andy and Ava began back towards the building. The sun seemed to hover in a fixed point in the sky, peeking through a small clearing in the clouds, as he watched the military man climb up the rotted ladder on the side of the wooden landmark. When he finally reached the deceased girl, Jake hoisted her upwards by pulling on the rope. It was a grisly sight; it made even the hunter sick to his stomach. As Jake pulled her up the last few lengths of cord, he decided to head back with Andy and Ava. He'd had enough death for one day.

Of course, the dreaded Winchester luck wasn't finished with him quite yet.

The sun seemed to have reset and was now just beginning to dip below the horizon. The inside of the townhouse was set with long shadows and flickering clouds of dust that played with one's eyes. As Sam ambled through the hallway and into the main room, the floor creaking ominously below him, the first thing Sam noticed was the broken salt line. Alarm bells rang straight to heaven's door in his head; something wasn't right.

The next thing he noticed was the dark figure of Andy Gallagher slumped on the floor as if his last moments were spent trying to run. Dark stains rain down the front of his grey shirt, blood. One arm was poised, outstretched towards the door. His is blaringly white eyes stared into the distance, seeing nothing but the secret that the hunter hoped he wouldn't learn for many years yet.

As if that wasn't enough, it was Ava Wilson who stood over him, a cloud of black smoke chasing around her shoulders like a demonic pet. Sam took a single step forward, when in hindsight he should have taken a thousand steps back.

"I had you going, didn't I?" she smiled. A shiver ran up the Winchester's spine. It wasn't a cruel smile, or a malevolent smirk she gave him; it was just a smile. She was enjoying this. Almost like she was the boss of a corporate company and he was the annoying assistant she was about to fire. "You see, I've been here a long time. They send groups of people here every few months or so…"

"I can get you out of here," Sam insisted, not seeing what else there was to say. Andy and Lily were dead, Ava was a murderer, and Jake could take care of himself. What good was he now?

"I don't think so," the brunette girl responded casually. "See, the only way out of here is to be the champ."

"What do you mean?"

"Don't you get it, Sam? The only way out is to be the last one standing. That's me, not you. He only needs one, and I'm the _best_."

"What do you mean the _best_?" he asked, catching a note of pride when she used the term.

"I can't believe I only used to have _dreams_," she exclaimed. "With a little practice, Sam, you can do this!" The cloud of dense, noxious smoke swirled around the room before landing in the center, manifesting into a little girl. The acheri from earlier today.

The little girl looked from Ava to Sam, and then a split second later, her face grotesquely transformed into a grey writhing mass of fangs and a smile so sharp you could hack your legs off with it. Sam lunged towards the pile of iron rods in the corner from earlier, but he was too late. The demon was upon him.

And then Jake was there, standing behind Ava with a menacing scowl upon his face. His hands were on her neck, and with an audible snap, he broke her neck. The body of what was once Ava Wilson the psychic fell to the ground in a limp puddle, her head at an awkward angle as she stared into the space of the room. The acheri screeched, distracted by the death of her master. That was all the time the hunter needed to grasp an iron pole and jam it into the form of the demon.

The monster melted into a cloud of blackened evil and flew out the window, hopefully gone forever. Sam sagged, slumping against the wall and just breathing for a moment. Jake stared at the corpse will an almost sad expression.

"I'll go bury her. You do what you need to do," the other man said. The Winchester was grateful when he dragged Ava away and left him alone.

The hunter got to his feet heavily. He felt sick in a way that was almost like he was wading through a thick jelly the color of blood. Carefully, as if it was the most important thing he had ever done, Sam fixed the salt line and returned the weapon still in his hand to its spot. For good measure, he closed the curtains and brought in a chair from another room. Sitting down, the Winchester waited for Jake to return.

But he was just so tired…

"Hey kid; long time no see!" A voice that spoke like a bullet said from across the area. Sam's head jerked up and pointed towards the source of the intrusion. There, in the lightest corner of the building was none other than Azazel. He smiled at the hunter like they were old friends in on a secret. "It's not very polite to hide from me for so long, but I'll forgive you this time."

"Go to Hell!" the Winchester snarled in reply, springing to his feet and grabbing iron.

The demon rolled his yellow and eyes and sighed, exasperated. "Been there."

"I'll kill you, you son of a bitch."

The demon tisked. "I want to help you Sammy, we're the same; you and I."

"I'm _nothing_ like you," Sam exclaimed, revolted at the very notion of it. "What do you want with me?"

"Oh, but you are just like me," Azazel insisted, taking a few steps towards the Winchester, opening his palms as if he was offering Sam the world. When the hunter side-stepped, avoiding any proximity to the demon, his hands snapped shut like venus fly traps; because, in reality, that's what he was, right?

"It doesn't matter if I have demon blood in me," the Winchester argued, standing taller. "I'll never stop trying to do good in the world. I won't side with you, ever."

"You think this is about the blood?" Azazel snorted. Sam only glared at the monster. After a few moments, he shrugged. "Okay, it's has a little bit to do with the blood. Have a walk with me, Sam."

"Why would I do that?"

"You're dreaming, kid. And they told me you were the smart one."

Sam got the distinct feeling that he didn't have a choice in the matter. So he nodded his consent, albeit warily. Azazel smirked, a smirk that was so unlike Gabe's, and motioned for him to follow out the door. They walked out into the cool night air, almost as if they were old friends.

"Why are you here?" the hunter asked, his hand dropping to his pocket, looking unconsciously for his flip knife. He knew in the back of his mind that it wasn't there, but he still felt a jolt of helplessness feeling only the lukewarm fabric of his jeans.

"Because I like you," the demon replied. "And I want you to win," he continued. "That's why I'm here, anyways."

"Win what?" the Winchester demanded. "What the hell do you _want_ from me?"

Azazel snorted, stopping suddenly in the middle of town. "_Want_ from you? I only want what you want, Sam."

"What I _want _is for monsters like _you_ to get the hell out of my life! That's what I'm here for!" he shouted, stepping closer to the demon, standing tall and imposing against the shorter being. His face grew dark; a deep restlessness could be seen behind his expression. "I _will_ make it out of here alive, and when I do, you'd better start counting your days. Because I won't rest until you're on your knees, _begging _for death."

The demon looked surprised for a second. "Well well well, Winchester; I didn't know you had it in you! Tell you what; I'm so impressed that I'll throw you a bone. That friend of yours, Jake? He isn't your friend. Only one lucky guest is going to make it out alive; you can be sure of that."

"Jake is good," the hunter said, "He wouldn't hurt me."

"Everyone has their price," Azazel assured him, "It just has to be met. He _would_ hurt you, just like everyone _else_ will hurt you."

Sam woke up.

ooo

Honestly, Gabriel was past his boiling point; he wasn't sure how he was currently keeping from smiting everyone in the Roadhouse. He and Dean had arrived there only two short hours ago, Ash ushering them into a quiet room somewhere in the back of the bar house. Apparently, the man with the mullet had found something huge, but was reluctant to say anything quite yet.

What he had told them, however, wasn't good.

"There isn't any demon activity anywhere on the map," he had said. "All's quiet on the western front."

"So how the hell are we going to find my god damn brother then?" the older Winchester asked angrily.

"I just need more time," Ash insisted. "Take a walk or something; you'll wear a hole in the carpet if you keep pacing like that. I'm not going anywhere."

Dean clenched his fists and teeth, storming out of the door looking as if he simultaneously wanted to strangle a puppy and strangle himself. The Archangel sighed, keeping his demeanor cool and walked out after him. Although, on the inside; he was full of white hot, burning, intense rage. He was one of heaven's most powerful warriors Dad-damnit! Being useless was _not_ in the job description!

The Winchester was racing out of the front door as the trickster turned the corner and arrived in the main bar area, which was chock-full of hunters looking to drown his pain in alcohol. For that, he was glad. Gabriel didn't have the patience to be dealing with _anyone_ right now that wasn't Sam Winchester. He could tolerate Dean, though if it meant that he would find the missing hunter faster.

"Damnit!" Dean was yelling as he punching the side of a plastic trash can when Gabriel walked outside.

"Settle down! I'm sure Sam is fine," the pagan god shouted over the profanity. He was sure that much was true, for as much trouble as the moose got himself into; he seemed to have a knack for surviving. What the Archangel was afraid of; however, was what events may start in the process. And yes, admittedly, Sam's safety. Not that he would show it, of course. The trickster just really couldn't help it.

"Who the hell are you to tell me what to do anyways?" the Winchester snarled, approaching Gabriel. "Who the hell are you to my brother? I don't know anything about you, but suddenly here you are; hovering around Sam's life like some sort of satellite! What do you want from him?"

"I just want to keep him safe, same as you," the pagan god exclaimed, unsure as of where this tirade came from.

Dean laughed tonelessly. "Why do you get into walk into his life and take my job? I'm his brother! I would have protected him, because you obviously can't."

Holy shit, he wanted to bash this man's face in with his bare hands so bad. "Listen," he growled instead, thinking only of what the hunter would say if he knew that it was the trickster who killed his brother, "I think I have more right than you to care about what happens to _your little brother_. I wasn't the one who left him alone with John all those years ago, was I?" Sam might be able to make excuses for what Dean did, but he couldn't care less to spare the older Winchester's feelings. "Because of your selfishness, you left him with your monster of a father, completely alone! Now look what's happened to him; that innocent kid you deserted? He's become a brutal, cunning hunter who wouldn't bat an eye, stabbing you in the back if you went dark side."

"I doubt-"

"Oh, you can't see it, can you?" he replied, snide. "Sam needs someone who will be there for him. He needs someone who will protect him from himself. He isn't who he used to be, Dean. Sammy's one goal in life is to save as many people as he can, but doesn't care what happens to him in the process. And you, _Dean Winchester_, I cannot trust to protect him. So start walking, cool off, and think for one time in your goddamn life, about the consequences of your actions! You can't fix him, so stop trying to turn him back into the Sam you once knew. He's not there anymore," the Archangel barked, finally calming down.

Dean didn't seem intimidated, but he looked thoughtful. With a furious huff, the Winchester turned and stalked down the road. Gabriel watched him until he was out of sight before returning to his search in the sky above the earth. To onlookers, it would appear that the pagan god was there one second, and gone the next; leaving only the sound of a great, flapping bird.


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21: We're Not in Kansas Anymore

ooo

It was still night when Sam awoke. The wind outside was cold, like a wild animal prowling the town in search of life to consume in its icy fist. The air smelled like frost and winter's grasp on the Earth, holding it tightly in its numb fingers. The townhouse creaked and groaned in the breeze. The hunter sat up in his chair, feeling disorientated. He felt like he had been hit with a twenty-pound bag of sand. The back of his skull throbbed in pain, almost as if he had a hangover.

The Winchester stood up, groaning and rubbing his head. There was hardly enough light to see by in the room. In fact, there was only a solitary, faint glow from a cloud-covered moon out the window. He blinked, looking around. Jake was nowhere to be seen. The iron rod pile was intact, as was the salt line. Sam released a pent-up sigh. Azazel still couldn't get them, they were safe; or at least relatively so.

Azazel. What he said about Jake, it was likely that the demon would attempt to pressure the man into doing something rash. He needed to get to him before that monster did. But where was he? Jake wasn't in the room, and there were no signs of him nearby. How long had he been out? Maybe the military man was still burying Ava and Andy.

He needed to find Jake before the demon did. Grabbing an iron bar, the Winchester headed outside. It was pitch black, the cold chill savagely bit at the Winchester's exposed skin like a feral animal. The moon had since disappeared behind another layer of dark grey clouds. The wind was whip-like in the way it whistled through the trees and into the center of town. Sam pulled his jacket closed, fighting off the frigid atmosphere of late winter.

As he walked, the hunter began to wonder. What would he do even when he found Jake? They needed to find a way out of here. Lily demonstrated that you couldn't simply walk out. Ava showed that they couldn't stay. So was there a third option?

Sam's tennis shoes made hard slaps against the frozen ground with every step he took. As he neared the edge of town, he heard the sound of a shovel, monotonously churning dirt in the distance. He headed towards the sound.

Through the deep, inky darkness, the Winchester could make out a figure. It was bent over like a dead-eyed farmer, transporting a small pile of unmoving earth into what looked to be a shallow hole. He worked slowly, as if the weight of the world was on his back. "Jake?" he called out, his voice gaining an eerie quality on the back of the wind.

The figure started, nearly dropping the shovel in the process. "Sam, I was almost done," Jake replied, his voice even despite the moment before.

The hunter frowned. "I'm going to get us out of here," he stated, feeling like it was the right thing to say. Jake didn't reply. He only packed the rest of the dirt into the hole, and then dropped the lifeless shovel on top.

"How?" the other man suddenly demanded. "You keep telling me that, but as far as I know, you haven't done jack squat!"

He wasn't wrong. "I just need more time," the hunter said slowly. "Demons aren't exactly a walk in the park for me, or for anyone."

"I thought you knew what you were doing," the other man said fiercely.

"I've been wondering," the Winchester replied darkly, "Why are you so excited to get out of here suddenly? I'm sure, according to the army, you've gone AWOL. The sooner we get out of here, the sooner you'll have to start running. Before you know it, you're behind bars."

Jake's silhouette stiffened in anger. "I need to get out of here," he reiterated, as if that small sentence held all the answers to all questions ever posed.

"Why? What's so important that you want to rush out into those woods over there," he growled, jabbing a thumb –invisible in the night- towards the tree line behind him. "And get yourself killed?"

"That's not what I said," Jake hissed.

"No, but that's what you meant. Now here's what _I_ mean. We need to keep cool and not do anything… rash. I'll find a way out of here, but in the meantime, you need to-"

"I don't _need_ to do anything," the military man yelled, taking a few, agitated steps towards the hunter. "I didn't ask for any of this!"

"Well, neither did I," the taller man snarled in return. "I've been hunting monsters my entire life! Do you think I _wanted_ to? Of course not! In fact, the only reason I'm still doing this is because I have no choice! If I can't save you, then what am I? Just a _freak_ with no home," he snapped. Having said that, the hunter turned tail and stalked away. He just needed to be alone for a minute, because that's what he was used to.

As he walked, the Winchester began to calm down. He had asked Jake to stay calm and collected, yet here he was, abandoning the other man in anger. Feeling sick to his stomach, the Winchester headed towards the middle of town. The blackness of night was fading around him. The sky was now a numb, dark grey. A lone crow squawked harshly from somewhere in the woods.

He had to decide what to do, how they were going to escape this hell-hole. They couldn't walk out; they'd be dead before sunrise. Staying wasn't an option; that much was obvious. Sam's pace stuttered as he had an idea. What if someone came and got them?

Gabe. Sam sighed, realizing how much he had missed the shorter man. If he could somehow get a message to him, they'd be out of here before they knew what had happened. The former bartender somehow always knew what to do. That wasn't why he liked him though. Sam liked Gabe because he somehow still cared about him, even though there probably wasn't a more messed-up person on Earth. Why he cared was a mystery to the hunter.

The only problem now was figuring out a way to contact the man, his friend. Phones were out, obviously. Even if he did have his cell phone, there was no way he'd actually get service. There wasn't so much as a light bulb here, let alone something as advanced as a radio. And it wasn't like he could use smoke to signal the man. So what could he do?

Sam felt a jolt of unease. He was psychic, so could he use his mind to 'call' Gabe? Only a day before, Andy had mentioned how he sent images to a man in town. Maybe he could too?

Sure, there were a million reasons why he shouldn't try. His powers were born of demon blood. Utilizing them would bring nothing but bad news. But, did he really have another option? He wasn't the type to just lie around, dying for a plot twist. He was a man of calculated action.

He spotted a mostly fallen apart well with a cast-iron bell strung haphazardly above it. It was just light enough for him to make out the oak tree insignia carved into its side. The Winchester gasped aloud. Cold Oak, South Dakota! The hunter _knew_ he had known this place! Cold Oak was a town so haunted, that all its residents had fled, a hundred or so years before. That little fact shouldn't have made the Winchester feel better, but it made him giddy. If he knew where he was, Gabe could find him!

Sitting down against the stone wall of the well, Sam concentrated. He wasn't sure how exactly he was going to contact Gabe, but he had to try. This was their only hope.

"Gabe?" He muttered, trying to picture his friend's face. His animated eyes… His impeccable, lively hair… His lips… Wow, what? Where did _that_ come from? Sam shook his head like a wet dog, and tried again. "Gabe, if you can hear me, I'm safe." That was a good way to start.

"Look, I don't know if this is even going to work. It was Azazel who took me… he's been kidnapping psychics. I'm in an abandoned town in South Dakota. Cold Oak. Have you heard of it? Don't worry about me; I know how to keep myself safe. There is another man here, Jake. I need to get him out of here. We can't leave, so you're going to have to come get us. I hope this went through. Goodbye Gabe…" he paused, not sure if he should go on. After a minute of consideration, he tacked on "I miss you."

It was lighter now, the sky morphing from a depressing grey to a brighter depressing grey. The Winchester felt a drop of rain on his face. Gritting his teeth, the hunter stood up, feeling another splash on his face. Just his luck. Instead of the appealing option of sitting around in a downpour, the man turned slowly and began tromping back towards home base.

As he walked, Sam began to feel just how tired he still was. Maybe he'd take a nap when he got back, and try getting a message to Gabe again when he woke up.

The dilapidated, quiet townhouse was just as he left it, except for one thing.

"Sam," Jake greeted the Winchester as he walked inside.

"Jake," the hunter replied, surprised. Jake stood, unmoving in the center of the room. He looked stiff and pale. His posture was ram-rod straight. There was a dullness to his face that Sam hadn't seen the likes of before.

"I wanted to talk to you, I was about to go looking," the military man said, his dark face stoic like the rest of him.

"Me too," Sam sighed. "I wanted to apologize. You were thrown into this situation blind, and I shouldn't have expected you to go along with what I said without asking why. It wasn't your fault, none of this was," the taller man explained, feeling truly remorseful.

"I actually wanted to say sorry too," Jake intoned, "I accused you of things I had no right to mention, especially when I know nothing about you. Look, whatever happens, I want you to know that none of it was your fault. I never blamed you," the military man said, not quite looking at the Winchester.

It seemed they had reached an understanding. The hunter threw Jake a small, forgiving smile, and the other man looked a little less dead inside. Suddenly, Sam yawned loudly. Before he could feel embarrassed, the military man chuckled slightly. "You get some rest, I'll keep a lookout, he said before quickly turning away and looking out the window.

Grateful, the hunter collapsed next to a wall. These past few days had really taken a toll on him, but hopefully, it will all be over soon. As the sun climbed higher and higher over the tree line, Sam's eyelids fell shut. Soon, the Winchester drifted off to sleep, feeling safer than he had since leaving his brother's farm in New York.

"Sam? Sam!" A voice called, dreamlike. The hunter in turn felt too foggy to really reply. Instead, he simply listened to the noise call his name over and over, getting closer and closer each turn of phrase. It seemed familiar somehow, comforting.

"Kiddo! Thank shit I finally found you. Your noggin' is a nuthouse, believe me."

"Gabe?" the taller man slurred, looking around through mist that felt like he was swimming in lukewarm alphabet soup. "S'that you?" Everything seemed too bright and painful, yet it also seemed leaden and unreal.

"Of course it's me, who else would it be?"

Sam didn't really believe it was him. How could it be? "Why're you here?" he asked, his tongue, hot and dry, sticking to the roof of his mouth as he tried to speak.

"You rang. Look, I really can't to be here longer than I have to, so here are the basics. I got your message, don't know how, so I'm chalking it up to _Sam Winchester is a pretty smart cookie._ It'll take some time to get through the, uh, woods; so hang in there kitty. It looks like the demons are shielding you, so that'll take a little longer to break through. Assume I'll be coming around within a day."

"Tha's good," the Winchester garbled; his gaze drifting nonchalantly, gazing at his surroundings. He really wanted to sleep, but he also wanted to keep listening to the former bartender's voice. He had missed it.

"Really though, don't you go anywhere," Gabe announced furtively.

"I can't go no'here," Sam replied. "I don' wanna."

The shorter man chuckled from somewhere in the fog. "Yeah, I know. See you 'round, Sammy."

Sam slept peacefully for a few more minutes before the unthinkable happened. It was suddenly there, the cold sliver of metal digging into the skin of his neck awoke the hunter from his slumber. At first, the Winchester was convinced it wasn't real. But then he blinked, opening his eyes.

The first thing he saw was Jake's hand pressing close to his jugular, holding a rusty knife with a wooden hilt. The next thing he saw was the remorse hidden beneath the animalistic hunt of the other man's brown eyes. Sam opened his mouth to speak, but the blade only dug into his flesh deeper.

Panic. The Winchester was panicking. Why was he doing this? Sam tried to convey the question with his eyes. But Jake wouldn't meet them.

"I had to, Sam," the other man muttered. "He has my sister."

The Winchester made a noise of disagreement. The cold metal sliced deeper. The blood dribbled down his skin and soaked his shirt. He wasn't dead yet. At this rate, he would be soon. Sam needed to get the other man to stop. The blade was freezing. His soaked, red shirt made him shiver.

"He has my sister!" the shorter man yelled, making the taller's ears ring. "You can't help me if you can't help her!"

Another noise of disagreement.

"I'm sorry," Jake whispered before swinging the knife from his neck and into the pit of Sam's stomach, twisting until he couldn't feel it anymore. It made a noise like he was stabbing a crisp watermelon. And then he was gone, sweeping outside in a furry of dirty, cameo clothes until the Winchester's heavy eyes couldn't see him anymore.

Sam didn't feel shocked at the turn of events. Here he lay, drifting on the floor of an abandoned house in the middle of nowhere, just as he figured he always would. Sam Winchester's last great hunt. He didn't feel as if he had failed, having not saved Jake. He felt like he _had_ saved him in a way. If only one of them was to escape, Sam was glad it was the military man.

His breath was labored now; he couldn't feel the rest of his body. The hunter felt like he was in a haze of tingling numbness. In all honesty, he was glad no one was here to see him like this. No one should have to.

Sam felt a jolt as he realized that Gabe would arrive in the town only to find the cold corpse of what was once his partner. The hunter wished he could tell him that he was sorry it had to end this way.

But then the Winchester remembered the way Gabe laughed. He thought about the way his eyes lit up when he told a joke, and Sam felt a little better.

Maybe they'd meet again under better circumstances… Was that gurgling noise coming from him?

He wasn't sure he was breathing now.

Sam's eyes closed against his will.

His head lolled to the side.

ooo

Gabriel had just arrived at the edge of the forests surrounding Cold Oak when Azazel's shield fell. That alone should have made the trickster suspicious, but he had been too thrilled by Sam's message that he wasn't thinking one-hundred percent.

Upon entering the town, the Archangel couldn't sense anything other than Sam. That was odd, he was certain that the Winchester had mentioned another man. Jake, hadn't it been? The rain began to come down faster and faster as he headed towards the hunter.

He threw open the door to the townhouse where he sensed the moose was camped out. Already, he could practically smell the salt and iron. The pagan god entered the ramshackle building, intent on hugging the human to shreds.

"Kiddo!" He announced himself, rounding a corner. The happy-go-lucky smile slid off of his face when upon noticing the pool of blood, no, the _lake_ of blood that surrounded the motionless, white figure of his only friend.

"_Sam_!" the Archangel exclaimed, throwing himself towards the Winchester in question. His hands grasped the crusty fabric of his shirt as he searched for any hint of life radiating from the poor kid's body. There was none. Sam was dead, though his body may still be warm.

_Holy shit_, Gabriel thought to himself. This was exactly the situation he had spent years planning to avoid. That wasn't the worst part, though. Forget the apocalypse, Sam Winchester was dead!

Flaming, white hot anger flooded through the trickster as he took in the scene before him. It was obvious that someone had stabbed him, and the Winchester had been alive through the entire ordeal. Now, who could have done that?

With a gentle hand, the Archangel placed a palm on the side of Sam's face. Almost instantly, the wounds that adorned his body were replaced with clean, unbroken skin. The blood and smell of decay were wiped from the ledger. Gabriel stood up; he could feel his wings itching to get into the air. Casting his sight outward, he searched for Jake, Azazel, and any other signs of life. Oh, they were going to pay. He would make sure of that.


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22: End All Be All

ooo

If it's the end of your world, typically most people would be in shambles. They would see the light fading fast, and everything would seem to get greyer. It was similar to Gabriel's situation, save for one thing. All he could see was red.

Sam Winchester was dead. Well and truly dead, and it was _entirely his fault_.

The Archangel wasn't known to be a caring person. He'd rather disappear for a few hundred years before handing off his personal, figurative key to some stranger. But, somehow, the younger Winchester brother had wormed his way under his skin and settled on top of his heart and other internal organs. The trickster had no idea how it had happened. A year ago, all he cared about was stopping the apocalyptic showdown between his two eldest brothers. Now he wanted to _protect_ the hunter?

Gabriel wanted to tear down the Earth and rebuild it without faults. He wanted to smite something –anything- so long as it distracted from the numbing feeling in the pit of his chest, spreading like a dull poison through his veins. Instead, he looked miserably at the still body of Sam Winchester and sighed.

Carefully he bent over and lifted the hunter from the dirty ground in his arms. The roof leaked a drop of rain onto his pale face; or did it? Oh father, this couldn't be happening! It wasn't just the fact that his only friend was dead; it was also the fact that the apocalypse was a sure thing now. Think of the end of times like a raging river, it was unstoppable. Once you opened the dam and let the water rush through, it was quite literally impossible to close it again.

So, on a scale of one to screwed; they were off the charts.

The Archangel flexed his invisible wings and took flight. The world seemed to _tilt _and their surroundings suddenly changed. The pagan god found himself standing in a familiar bedroom. Soft light trickled through cream curtains from the sunrise outside. The walls were painted a greyish-golden color, like the color the sky turns just before nighttime. The room itself was impersonal; there were no photos, trinkets or other things to tell about the owner.

Gabriel lowered the Winchester onto the covers of the bed. The mattress bounced under his weight before settling after a few seconds. His clothes were still caked with dried mud, dirt, and blood. Feeling lightheaded, the trickster touched his hand to the side of the other's cool face, and his clothes were instantly replaced with a cotton flannel shirt and blue jeans.

Having done that, the pagan god simply looked at his friend again. Sam should never have to look so small. With that thought, a wave of anger overtook him. Jake was going to pay for this, and he'd smite the living Hell out of Azazel; pun intended.

Giving the hunter a bitter look, he paused. After a moment's hesitation, the Archangel bent over the taller man and placed a soft kiss on his forehead, threw a last, regretful glance; and then took to the sky. The pagan god cast his awareness outward, searching for either the demon or the murderer.

It was surprising when the Archangel almost immediately sensed Jake in the state of Wyoming. Despite being practically out of his mind with grief and rage, somewhere in the back of the angel's mind, a small voice began to chant "_trap, trap, trap_". Ignoring the better part of his mind, the trickster landed in Wyoming.

He found himself on an old, weed-strewn, dirt road. There was a chill in the air, coupled with a foreboding feeling that set Gabriel's teeth on edge. It smelled like wet earth, worms, and a faint hint of sulfur. Everything was unnaturally quiet, save for the biting breeze that rattled the tree skeletons as it brushed by.

"Loki, just the man we had been expecting!" A voice that spoke like a bullet proclaimed from behind the Archangel.

Slowly, cautiously, he turned to face the demon and the tall military man. Jake looked sick, his eyes were lowered to the ground. All the fight seemed to have abandoned him. Honestly, the man could have been tortured and without limbs; he still wouldn't care. The only thing he wanted now was some good old fashioned justice.

"Azazel," he greeted; his voice falsely cheery.

The demon's face contorted into something reminiscent to a grin full of maggots. "You didn't think you'd actually be able to get away with hiding Sam from me, did you?" Azazel stepped forward, waving his hands dismissively. "A pagan god is _nothing_ compared to what I'm capable of."

At that point, Gabriel was seriously at risk of snorting obnoxiously. "Obviously," he said instead, voice full of dead mirth. "Jokes on me. I've been caught."

Obviously knocked-off guard, the other man's face dropped. The Archangel took this opportunity to step in closer to the monster. His posture was relaxed and betrayed nothing. A half-mile crept up onto his face, but it did not reach his eyes.

"You took Sam away from me," he posed. "And if that wasn't enough, you brag about it like you're a pre-pubescent teenager who won a participation ribbon at school." The trickster was now well into Azazel's personal space. Even though his expression was full of humor, his eyes were sharper than the silver blade that had slipped into his palm a moment earlier.

All the while this was going on; Jake was circling around the outskirts of the road, rounding in an attempt to get behind Gabriel. While the Archangel noticed this, he ignored him in favor of inevitable revenge.

"This was always going to happen," Azazel argued; his smug demeanor back in place. "It wouldn't matter if you had stripped the very ground beneath our feet from the skeleton of the Earth; he still would have gone to Hell. Sam Winchester _had_ to die, and I think he deserved it even."

"Oh, you son of a bitch," the trickster swore, finally losing his cool. The angel blade was a glimmer of silver against the grey sky as the trickster lunged forward, thrusting the blade towards the demon's torso. Azazel let out a satisfactory grunt of surprise as he barely side-stepped the fatal weapon.

"You're not Loki!" He hissed, eyes turning a sickly yellow color.

"No, I'm not; and your contacts don't scare me," Gabe exclaimed in fury. He swung out with the blade once again, slashing a cut into the fabric of the other's canvas jacket. Azazel jumped backwards, using the split second to nod towards Jake, who had somehow come in possession of a very old, familiar revolver.

The resounding sound of the bullet made the tree branches shake around them. The gun seemed wrong somehow, like it was a forbidden instrument that just shouldn't be used; by good or evil. None of this was apparent to Gabriel, who did not have enough time to evade the path of the bullet. It struck him between the ribs painfully, like he had been punched by an elephant who'd just won a boxing match.

The roaring in his ears drowned out the yelp of victory that Azazel let out. It had been a long time since the Archangel had felt true, awful pain; the kind of pain that you felt in the chattering of your teeth and the weakness of your knees. It truly felt like he was going to die.

He wanted to collapse to the ground; anything to just get rid of this jarring, white-hot agony. Instead of the former, he forced out a feral, groaning laugh. No, he wouldn't let the scum of Hell have this moment.

"Why are you laughing?" Azazel probed.

"You really think a friggin' gun is going to kill me?" he insisted, hands doing their absolute best to staunch the blood flowing from his chest. Despite his efforts, it still slipped out and soaked his shirt; trickling down his leg and forming a small puddle at the base of his sneakers.

"It's not just any old gun," the demon said. "It was made by Samuel Colt himself. It can kill anything!" he howled in triumph.

"Idiot," Gabriel jeered, "There are exactly five beings in existence that it _can't_ kill," he chuckled darkly. Already the pain seemed to be ebbing away. He was gaining confidence with every second that passed, not to mention a few other things; like fury and vengeance. "I happen to be one of them."

"What are you talking about?"

_Plink._

The bullet hit the ground with a soft sound as the trickster's body healed itself at an unnatural rate. With a heavy sigh of relief, the former bartender stretched his torso nonchalantly; testing out his limbs. Azazel looked on with an unfathomable expression.

"Who _are_ you?" Jake asked quietly from the outskirts of the area.

The silver blade reappeared in the pagan god's hand. He held it up to the dim light, twirling it experimentally. Jake took a shuttering step backwards. Azazel scowled at him, but he himself did nothing to stop the retreating figure.

"Name's Gabriel, I'm an Archangel," he smirked; all teeth.

"Holy shit," Jake started, turning and running in the opposite direction. With a ruthless laugh, the trickster was suddenly in front of the military man; hand outstretched and pressing into the taller man's forehead. There was a painful light and Jake collapsed to the ground; lifeless. In his mind, it was a mercy. If he had more time, he'd think of something more creative. But there were bigger fish to fry as of right now.

"I think you'll find that I'm not so easily disposed of," the demon growled, eyes flashing yellow.

"Yeah, we'll see about that."

Azazel shot forward like a train running rampant down a mountainside. The trickster was ready for him, but he wasn't prepared for the sound punch to his stomach. Gabriel flew backwards, managing to catch himself from falling at the last second. Shit, just how strong _was _Azazel? He didn't stand still long enough to question this; the Archangel was already on the offensive again.

The two forces collided, but this time Gabriel had the upper hand. Twirling his blade, he managed to slice a deep laceration into Azazel's waist. The demon screeched, his elbow flying up and connecting with the pagan god's eye. Grunting in pain, he thrust out wildly again with the weapon, landing a few more, critical blows.

"You can't save him," Azazel panted, his eyes filled with a deep fury.

"That's not an option," the former bartender retorted, feigning left and attacking.

"You should know as well as I do that it's impossible."

"I think I've had enough of you talking," the Archangel huffed.

"Then do something about it!" the yellow-eyed demon jeered, somehow managing to tear a bloody gash into his cheek with nothing but his fists and his own skills. Gabriel couldn't remember the last time he felt this pissed off. Everything was falling apart around him! What had started off as a fairly straightforward mission had turned into an all-out suicide mission.

With an unearthly, high-pitched screech, the forest was filled with a sterile, excruciating light. Through the chaos, he could hear Azazel's screams, full of pain and rage and who-knows what else.

The light faded after what seemed like forever. The Archangel felt drained like he hadn't in the longest time. He saw the demon's vessel lying where he had been standing before; eyes burned out of their sockets as if he himself had stuck light bulbs into them and plugged the man into a power outlet. Jake was still dead a short distance away, staring hollowly towards the scene with similar wounds like Azazel now bore.

Suddenly, his cell phone rang from deep within his battered jacket pocket. Without thinking much of it, he pulled it out and held it up to his ear. "State your name, business, and then kindly go jump off a cliff. Gabe speaking."

"_Gabe? It's Dean. Where did you go? I've been looking everywhere for you! It's been hours, and I had thought you had headed back to the Roadhouse, so I went back too. But when I got there, the entire building was on fire! What the Hell, dude?_"

"Dean-" he interrupted; but apparently the older Winchester wasn't done with him yet.

"_Did you not hear me? The Roadhouse is gone! Everyone is probably _dead! _How are we supposed to find Sam now?"_

"…Dean-" he tried again.

"_I thought you were supposed to save people? You've done a really shitty job so far."_

"Dean!"

"_What?"_

He took a deep breath. It was now or never.

"I found him. He's dead."

There was an unfathomable pause in the conversation. Then a cautious "_You found who, exactly?_"

"Sam. I found Sam. He's dead."

"_It's not funny, stop joking around like that."_

"I'm not kidding. Your brother is _dead, _Dean!"

Gabriel wasn't sure what he had been expecting. Anger, maybe; sadness, sure; but something he hadn't been expecting was denial. Perhaps he had gotten too used to people automatically believing whatever he said when he said it; as if he was puking up gold whenever words game out of his mouth. "_That's not possible. He can't be dead. Sam _can't_ be dead._"

"I'm sorry."

"…How? I mean, how did he…?"

"He was stabbed. Don't worry; I got the sorry bastard who did it."

"_Thanks,_ _that makes me feel so much better," the other man said sarcastically._

They were quiet for a minute, processing the entire situation. The forest was dead silent. There wasn't so much as a single living thing as far as the Archangel could tell, save for himself. The trees were motionless without a breeze, making it seem as if all of time had stopped.

"_So what now?"_ Dean asked in monotone.

"I don't really know," the trickster replied, an anvil of helplessness settling down on his heart. There was truly nothing the Archangel could do to help now. The apocalypse was in motion, Sam was dead, and he couldn't go and get the Winchester. There was nothing as far as the eye could see.

The elder Winchester seemed to be contemplating something. With a pixilated sigh, he said "_This is it, I guess."_

"What do you mean?" The trickster asked in confusion.

"_It's not like we're friends. Now that Sam is… Well, I don't really see a reason to continue communicating. We'll go our separate ways."_

"Whoa, what?" Gabriel exclaimed. Something was off, here.

"_Goodbye, Gabe."_ The phone line cut a second later.

The Archangel was now well and truly alone, and he didn't like it one bit.

ooo

Dean hit the _end call_ button on his cell phone feeling hollow. The smell of ash and smoke still clung to his clothes. He'd explored the ruins of the Roadhouse, finding no survivors. It was a cruel twist of fate, Sam showing up on his doorstep had seemed like a gift from God himself; only to be ripped away from him a week later.

Admittedly, when Sam had mentioned demons, it had caught the elder Winchester's interest. So he researched the topic in his free time. At first the information served only to satisfy his curiosity. But the farther into the lore he dug, the more it became a backup plan in case anything ever went wrong.

In Dean's mind, nothing could be more wrong than his little brother's death.

The demon lore stated that he could have anything he wanted, all for one, simple price. It required a few strange odds and ends to start the process, but the Winchester was certain that it wouldn't be a problem. In fact, he had everything he needed.

He dug a shallow hole into the dead center of the crossroads outside the burnt shell of the roadhouse. The dirt was frozen for the most part, and covered in a thin layer of black ashes. Once it was deep enough, Dean placed a small box into the bottom, covering it up a moment later. He waited nervously. Was this even going to work? And what if it did? What then?

"Dean Winchester, well; this _is_ a surprise."

The older brother spun around, coming face to face with a woman. She had black hair and cheekbones so sharp he could give himself a haircut. She gave him a smile that seemed forced. "So what do I owe the pleasure?"

Nervously, he cleared his throat. "I want my brother back."

The woman went to examining her nails. "What do you think I can do about it?"

"You're a demon, and I'm here to make a deal."

She laughed. It was a laugh that sounded like it belonged to a mother who was only entertaining an idea a three year-old had. "So what do I get out of it?"

Dean cleared his throat again, but refused to look away. "You know what you get out of it."

She looked up from her nails, apparently pleased by his answer. "There will be a few conditions you do realize, apart from the obvious."

"Like?"

"Tsk, handing a demon a blank check? Bad idea, Winchester," she scolded, looking as if she was thoroughly enjoying herself. Dean himself blanched slightly, but before he could reprimand himself, she was speaking again. "You don't get ten years, if you make the deal, Dean."

"What?" he exclaimed.

"My requirements are as follows; your soul –obviously- and I take you immediately. You don't know what kind of congratulations I'll get from the head's downstairs!" she hummed, looking at the other man expectantly.

Dean contemplated it for a second. Yes, if he made the deal; he'd go to Hell. But Sam would be alive! Wouldn't it be worth it? On the other hand, if he didn't go through with it; he would live a long life; always wondering "what if"?

The demon clicked her tongue, gaining the Winchester's attention. "Decision time?"

He paused again, and then sighed. "Yes. I'll do it."


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23: It Could be Worse, Right?

He awoke with a gasp, his lungs starving for air as if he had spent an hour submerged in dark, quiet water. His body ached; a headache throbbed in the pit of his skull with vengeance. What had happened? He couldn't remember much, past Jake's threats… but then what had happened?

Sam sat upwards and got to his swaying feet, rubbing his head with one hand. Blinking, his eyes adjusted to the room around him. Warm light poured in through the curtains from outside. The walls were painted a greyish-yellow color, like the color of dull gold coins. There were no personal belongings in the room; the four walls told no stories of who lived there.

How had he gotten here? Last he knew of, he and Jake were holed up in a ramshackle building out in the middle of nowhere. He had tried to get a message to Gabe, and had promptly fallen asleep on the tattered floorboards of the townhouse.

Reality struck, and the Winchester felt moved by the weight of it all. Maybe Azazel had kidnapped him during the night and brought him here, alone and unarmed. Had this all been a part of some crazy master plan?

The floor creaked under a foreign weight, heading his way. Quickly, the hunter began to look for anything resembling a weapon. The dressers were full of nothing but dull linens and fabrics. There wasn't a closet to be seen. Sam patted his jacket pockets, hoping by an off chance Azazel hadn't taken everything. He found nothing but a silver gum wrapper and a crumpled, water damaged rescript that smelled vaguely of cinnamon.

So here he stood, towering dumbly in the middle of the room, staring at the closed door.

As if in slow motion, the entrance opened casually. The first thing the hunter saw was a head of unruly, light-brown hair; a mop of hair that he had seen so many times before. Sometimes Sam would spot a tuft sticking out at a strange angle, making him want to reach out and tuck it behind the nearest ear. Then the wind would catch and he'd swear he could smell a faint scent of caramel chocolate.

"_Sam_?" Gabe choked on what looked to be a grey mug of cold coffee.

"_Gabe_?" he inhaled violently.

Somehow, the coffee ended up spilled all over the floor. The former bartender was suddenly and absolutely wrapped around his waist. The Winchester didn't throw away a second before he too embraced his friend. Neither of them was sure how long they stayed like that.

"How did you get me out of there?" Sam asked quietly, "And without me knowing?"

"Ugh-" the other man coughed into the space behind him. "That other guy knocked you out pretty good. Jake; wasn't it? I got there just in time to save you."

Sam hesitated. "He was going to kill me?"

_He sure as Hell was, in fact he did. _The Archangel thought manically. The trickster had been in the kitchen, staring at his ugly grey mug sadly when he had heard something shift in the floor above him; where he had laid Sam. He hadn't thought much of the noise, only assuming that the wind had kicked up and threw open one of the windows. Taking his good old time climbing the stairs, he clearly hadn't been expecting who was waiting for him on the other side of that closed door.

Of course, had it been possible, Gabriel himself would have stormed both Heaven and Hell to get the taller man back. But it wasn't. There was only one person who could have possibly saved the Winchester… So that meant…

Oh that son of a _bitch_. Let it be said now that the Winchesters were a family of complete and utter idiots.

See, Sam's death was essentially the switch that opened the floodgates of the apocalypse. Once you start it, you just couldn't stop it. The trickster's plan had failed. It felt like an invisible boxer had nailed him in the groin. Years and years of planning, all down the drain! This was entirely his fault!

"Are you okay?" The hunter asked; his eyebrows furrowing in a display that Gabriel hadn't the energy to call cute.

But, was it all lost? The Archangel thought hard for a second. Did he have another opportunity to fix this? Technically, there was one more crucial pit stop before the end of times could take full flight. The former bartender felt a small breath of hope inflate in his chest. He could still do this. He would do it for Sam.

"I'm fine. Just glad to see you awake," Gabriel said, a soft sigh escaping him as he shoved his face into Sam's broad, jacket-clad chest.

The hunter shifted from one foot to the other, clearing his throat in confusion; but he did not release his hold on the shorter man. The pagan god counted it as a win.

"So," the hunter began awkwardly, "We have stuff to do."

"Says who?" Gabe said, his face muffled by Sam's body.

"I need to find John," he started, "I understand if you don't want to help me find him. It's enough that you came to rescue me from Cold Oak, and I don't expect you to hang around after that ordeal," the Winchester said, unsure as to how to say it.

"You want me to leave?" Gabe asked, lifting his head from the warm plane of Sam's chest. The taller man swallowed hard, both wishing he'd take a step back and not.

"No!" the hunter insisted, staring intensely back at Gabe, willing him to understand. "It's just, I understand if you don't want to be around me anymore. It's alright if you want me to leave you alone."

"I don't want that, kiddo," the former bartender sighed. "I'm with you 'till the end."

At that, a light blush graced the Winchester's cheeks and the tip of his nose. "Thanks, Gabe. I really appreciate it."

"Don't mention it."

Sam cleared his throat again, breaking the intensity of the moment beforehand. The former bartender released his grip on the hunter, who in turn, stepped backwards and looked to the ground.

"We should leave," the taller man mumbled. "I want to start to look for my dad as soon as possible."

"Don't you want to rest for a little while? We're not in a hurry. He's not getting any farther away," Gabe protested, throwing Sam a wary look that he didn't miss.

"Why? The quicker we get going, the faster I'll find him."

"You… got a pretty nasty bump on the head," his friend retorted.

"I feel fine," Sam insisted, narrowing his eyes in confusion. "In fact, I don't feel like I've was knocked out at all."

"That's because I did a pretty awesome job of patching you up, if I do say so myself," the other man smirked.

Sam stared at Gabe for a minute, and then shook his head slightly like a wet dog. "How did you get past Azazel?" he asked, instead of prying further. He doubted that his friend had anything to hide, and attacking the subject any longer would turn up no carrion beneath the dirt.

At this, Gabe paused. "Actually, that's a pretty funny story."

"A story that I still want you to tell."

"I would expect nothing less," his friend said, moving around the Winchester and slouching down onto the bed behind him. Patting the spot next to him like they were at a slumber party, Sam chuckled before sitting down next to the other man and looking at him expectantly.

"Have you ever heard of an old hunter named Daniel Elkins?"

"The name sounds familiar, why?" Sam asked, scratching one finger behind his ear.

"Well, rumor had it that he'd come into possession of a gun."

"A gun?" the hunter asked, bewildered.

"Not just any gun, kiddo," the other man chastised. "A special gun, made by a man named Samuel Colt."

"Samuel Colt?" the taller man gasped. The man, the myth, the legend; Samuel Colt was probably the best hunter to ever live. Any hunter worth their salt and iron knew about him.

"Yeah. Rumor had it; the gun could kill almost anything. Well, let's just say I happened to come by it."

"You did? Did you get Azazel, then?"

The other man huffed an amused laugh, as if to say _are you seriously asking me that question? _"I did."

It was as if someone had tied a balloon to Sam's spirit and lifted him up above the raging storm clouds below. The demon that had been plaguing him was dead; gone! Without thinking much of it, the hunter turned and hugged the former bartender towards him. "Thank you," he murmured lowly.

It was Gabe's turn to appear awkward. "Uh, sure. Anytime, kiddo."

Sam pulled away, clambering to his feet with a smile on his face. "We should probably get going, then; Gabe."

"Hey, Sam?" the shorter man asked suddenly, grabbing for the Winchester's jacket sleeve before he got too far away.

"Yeah?"

A pause, then, "You know, Gabe's not my full name."

The hunter gave him a short, good-natured look. "Yeah?"

"I think I'd like it if… you called me Gabriel, sometime."

"Gabriel?" Sam said, tasting the name as it rolled off his tongue. "I like it," he announced seriously. Sam felt as if he had been entrusted with something extremely important. The look on his friend's face confirmed the belief.

Gabriel nodded, looking equal parts happy and anxious.

"So… Gabriel. Can I ask you a question?"

"Yes, I braided your hair while you were unconscious," the former bartender smirked, snapping his fingers in a theatrical way on the word _hair_. Instantly, Sam's hand went to his head. Sure enough, there was a small, thin braid trailing down behind his ear and held fast with a tiny rubber band. The blush from earlier was back, this time; it was full-force.

Sam glared at him, his fingers scrambling to undo the unwanted hairdo. Gabriel just laughed.

After a few ungainly moments, the braid had been removed. The hunter's scowl deepened when he found that the rubber band that had been holding it in place was colored a gentle pink, the color a newborn baby girl's room would be painted.

"So, you had a question?" his best friend snorted.

"I asked you before, but I want to know. How did you become a specialist?" It seemed to be the question of the hour. Now that the bulk of Sam's troubles were over, he felt it was a good time to ask.

Gabe sighed. He figured it had only been a matter of time before this came up once again. This time, he had a feeling there was no avoiding the question. "My two older brothers used to be inseparable," he began, a short frown in place. "Everything always seemed perfect when they'd get along. They were the center of attention that even I couldn't compete with," he said, an eyebrow waggle in place.

The Winchester was quiet, waiting for him to continue with an unfathomable expression placed precariously upon his face.

"They got into a fight over Dad's attention. I can still remember that day," his voice had taken on a clear, resonate quality as he stared into empty space. It was almost as if he forgot that he wasn't alone anymore. "They'd been more and more hostile towards each other before then, but that time, it had been different. I just couldn't bear to watch it anymore, so I ran. And I never went back."

Somehow, the hunter had gotten closer; becoming a comforting presence.

"I was a mess. I didn't know which way was right, which way was left; let alone how to fend for myself. There are some things I did that, looking back, I regret. I really do." He huffed out a breath, hand running over his face.

"It was the middle of the night, pouring rain, as I was heading home from some nondescript bar." Suddenly, Gabriel chuckled wryly. "Hell- I even remember how the only streetlamp on the entire street had been flickering."

Sam's mouth quirked downwards, so he hurried onwards.

"There was a little boy hiding behind a dumpster. He smelled like dog shit and looked worse, but he had caught my attention. Asked him why he was there. All he gave me were those terrified puppy-eyes, looking over my shoulder. Naturally, I turn around and find myself face-to-face with Mr. Fangs and Fury."

"A vampire?" Sam asked; his eyes alight in curiosity and something else that neither of them would be able to place.

The former bartender nodded gravely. "I had a knife on me, just a small pen knife. That son-of-a-bitch was tough, but somehow I drove him away. I saved that boy's life. Afterwards, he told me that he was the son of a hunter who had been passing through town. His dad had sent him to scout out the area by himself. Let me tell you, I don't think that the vampire was the one I should have been worrying about. Who sends their only kid out on his own, knowing what was out there?" Gabe growled, wringing his hands in the thin, grey fabric of his shirt.

The Winchester didn't reply, though the shorter man could see the thoughts turning right behind his intense gaze.

"So I tracked down the hunter and helped him take out the nest of vampires. In return, he told me what he could about the supernatural world. I decided from then on I would do all I could to help, and that's how I became a specialist. And the rest is history."

"What did you do about the hunter?" The Winchester asked, giving him a curious look. Sam knew that Gabe wasn't the kind of person to leave loose ends loose.

"Let's just say he and I don't get along."

"Do I know him? What's his name?"

At this point, the former bartender shifted uncomfortably. "Listen, kiddo. This guy is ruthless; you don't want to be involved with him."

"How am I supposed to do that, if I don't even know who he is?"

Gabe sighed, leaning in so that he was propped up against the Winchester. "I guess you're right. His name was Gordon Walker."

"Gordon Walker?" he exclaimed. "I've met him! He hangs out at the Roadhouse sometimes. Ellen told me the same thing, to stay away."

His friend did a double take. "The Roadhouse?"

"Um, yeah. That's what I said."

"Listen; there is something else I need to tell you. I got a call…" a pause. "From the bar," he said quickly. "It burned to the ground yesterday. Everyone is dead."

Sam wasn't sure exactly what to think. While he couldn't claim to know them all very well, he felt like the Harvelle's place was the closest thing he ever had to a home. They had all been so helpful and understanding; and Ellen had put him on the path to meeting Gabriel. There was no way he'd ever be able to repay their kindness; not that it mattered anymore.

"Anything else I should know?" the hunter asked; his voice on the verge of cracking.

"Yeah, I think you should take a day off and rest," came the reply.

The Winchester wanted to be mad. He had lost so much in such a short time span. It was all too much, from the entire Azazel's death debacle, and now to the death of the Roadhouse and all who dwelled within. Sam wasn't sure how his life had come to this, but for some reason it had. Apparently the universe had a beef with him, and it was just following through.

"Earth to Sam?" quipped a worried Gabe. "Are you alright?"

No, Sam was very much not alright. He felt broken, listless. In all honesty the Winchester wanted to sink down into a pit of despair and never resurface, but that was unlike him. When things get bad, he continues onward, because that is the only thing he can do. If he doesn't keep fighting for himself, then he will fight for someone else.

"Let's just find my dad," he replied, a note of stone in his voice.

"Okay," Gabriel nodded solemnly. "Okay."


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24: Watch the Sun, it Might Not be there Later

How could so much have changed, all in a matter of days? Azazel –the bastard- was dead now, luckily. But at what cost? Ellen and Jo were dead. He couldn't save Ava, Lily, Andy, or Jake. Sam sat quietly on the edge of his chair, staring deeply into his full, lukewarm mug of coffee Gabe –Gabriel- had fixed for him.

But no matter how long he gazed into the murky, brown depths of his drink, he couldn't shake the soul-deep feeling that he was missing something.

In all honesty, a part of the Winchester realized that he probably wouldn't survive the yellow-eyed demon's game plan. The haunted town had been set up like a prison, designed to keep people like him in, and everything else out. Now, Sam realized that Gabriel probably had a few tricks up his sleeve, being a specialist and all; so he would have had many more ideas on how to jailbreak the hunter out of the abandoned town. But his friend was only human, and Azazel was a supercharged monster. Realistically, the demon would have seen the former bartender coming a mile away and acted accordingly. It just didn't add up.

"Are you gonna cry, kiddo?" he heard his friend ask from behind him. "I've never seen anyone stare that pensively at anything since Leonardo DiCaprio missed out on yet another Oscar."

"I'm fine. Are you ready to go?"

"Yeah, yeah. The Impala is loaded, and I took the liberty to fill up the glove box with candy; so I wouldn't open it unless you _really_ want to taste the rainbow."

The Winchester chuckled, heading over to the sink to dump out his cooled mug of coffee. The brown liquid swirled down the steel sink and down the drain, gurgling. Rinsing out the cup, he placed it in one of the cupboards for future use.

"Hey, Gabriel?"

"Yes, I grabbed the shampoo and conditioner. Father knows you need it."

If Sam noticed the misuse of the word "father" he ignored it, much to the Archangel's relief. "That's not what I was going to ask. Do you actually live here?" the Winchester inquired.

"Well, yeah. I call it more of my temporary residence. It's nothing fancy; just a place to put my feet up whenever I get the time." His friend explained, looking towards the window and out at the sunlit woodlands lining the backyard. His mouth was drawn in a line, and his eyebrows furrowed. Was he… embarrassed? Nervous?

"I like it," Sam assured him. The odd expression dropped off the former bartender's face and was replaced with one of happiness.

"I'm glad you do, kiddo," the shorter man answered easily. Suddenly, his looked stern. "I just wish we could stay longer. John isn't exactly going anywhere, and it would certainly make me feel a whole lot better."

"You know I can't," the hunter argued. "I need to find him. John wouldn't want to live like that, possessed by a monster."

"What about how _you_ want to live?" the shorter man inquired, slinging a heavy bag over his shoulder. His mouth was drawn into a thin, unhappy line as he looked over at the Winchester.

"It doesn't matter. We'd better get going," having said that, the hunter turned and left out the front door. The Impala looked no worse for wear in the thin, golden light of the day. With a heavy breath, Sam leaned against the cool metal frame of the vehicle. Sure, Gabriel said that he had saved the taller man, but the Winchester sure as Hell didn't feel saved.

His friends were dead. The gnawing animal that seemed to have set up permanent residence in the pit of his stomach reared its head at that thought; basking in the dark light of his despair. Sam wanted to punch something, someone. He wanted, no; needed to do something other than sit around Gabe's house in perpetual uselessness. The hunter needed to honor the dead's memory, especially Ava, Andy, Lily, and Jake. After all, they were all dead because of him. And what better way to honor them than to find John?

He took a moment to gather himself up. There wasn't any time for him to fall apart. There were still people that needed him, and he would rather die before letting any one of them down. With a final moment of weakness, Sam pushed himself up from where he had been leaning and unlocked the car, placing everything he had been carrying into the backseat. The Winchester ticked off of his mental checklist. The weapons were fully stocked and hidden away in the secret compartment under the false floor of the trunk, Sam's small duffle bag was tucked between the driver's and back seats, and Gabe was bringing out his own bag at that very moment.

"Ready?" Sam asked the former bartender, who was limping out the front door of his house, lugging a heavy bag with both hands in front of him, tripping over it every few seconds or so.

"As I'll ever be," his friend groaned, dropping the duffle into the back of the Impala with a sigh.

"Good. While you were packing, I picked up a paper trail using one of John's credit cards. He was in a small town outside of Helena, Montana a few months back. We can pick it up from there."

"Great, I've always wanted to be eaten by a bear," the shorter man grunted. "Besides, you'll fit right in." They were both silent for a moment before Gabriel clarified. "Moose, kiddo, moose."

"Ha ha," the Winchester deadpanned. "That was even funnier than the _last_ fifty times you used that punchline."

Gabriel gave a noncommittal shrug, still looking pleased with himself.

"Let's go," the hunter said, getting into the front seat of the vintage, black car. Gabe climbed in the side, an almost too easy smile in place. Casting him a vaguely annoyed glance, Sam revved the engine up sharply and they were on the road. The former bartender didn't notice how the Winchester watched the cheery house with the yellow door for as long as he could see it, until they turned the corner.

They drove well into the day with the windows down. It was a rare warm day, one of the few sprinkled through early March. The sun shone pleasantly through the windshield, heating the interior of the vehicle to the point that Sam had to pull over to shrug off his coat. The cool wind that blew in through the window smelled like thawed earth and pine. Both feeling optimistic, they headed east in the direction of Montana.

About half way through the day-long trek, Gabe looked over at Sam, fidgeting in his seat. "Hey kiddo?" he began awkwardly. "Do you believe in God?"

The hunter frowned slightly, his eyebrows furrowing as he glanced from the road up to his friend and back again. "God?"

"Yeah, do you believe there is a God?"

His frown deepened as he thought about the question. "I think… I think I used to."

Gabriel looked stricken. "Used to?"

"I used to think that since there was so much bad stuff in the world, than there had to be _good_ too. But now, I'm not so sure."

"Why not?"

Sam sighed, his grip on the steering wheel tightening ever so slightly. "If there is a God, than he stopped caring a long time ago. So to answer your question, yes, I believe in God; but I don't _believe_ in him. Not anymore."

The Impala seemed colder now. It sounded like the vacuum of space, jostling its way over little cracks, bumps, and rocks in the road. The silence was a thick fog at sea, chocking everything it covers in sterile white.

"Do you?" Sam asked later when the clouds had rolled in, covering the sun, and he had replaced his coat.

"Do I what?" Gabe asked, jumping at the sound of the taller man's voice.

"Believe in him," the reply came, with a matching vague hand gesture towards the sky.

"I never though you would ask," the former bartender smiled. "I believe in him, but I sure as Hell wouldn't bet any money on him. Besides, that guy seems indecisive. Have you ever _seen_ a platypus? I mean, come on!"

"So where _would_ you put your money?"

He turned thoughtful for a moment before answering. "The people, humans."

The hunter huffed, looking surprised. His hazel eyes found Gabe's golden ones. "People?"

"Yeah. I mean, I know that there are a lot of scumbags out there, but there is also good too. Do you know how I know that?"

They passed the _Welcome to Montana!_ sign, but neither of them really noticed. The road was empty, save for the gentle rumbling of the engine below them and the empty-minded squirrel that barely escaped death by flying tires.

"How?" the response was quieter than Sam intended, but he found that he didn't particularly care.

"Because I have the honor of looking at _you_ every single day."

In all honesty, that was probably the kindest thing anyone had ever said to the Winchester. He didn't know how to respond. His insides felt like they were melting in warm butter. He could only stare intensely at his friend.

Thankfully, Gabriel noticed this and covered for him. "I wasn't always this charming and handsome you know," the shorter man explained. "I used to get my kicks off of punishing people who I thought deserved it. The people who called themselves my friends had a nickname for me; the trickster," he said, his jaw snapping shut quickly as he finished speaking. There was an uncomfortable moment before he continued, and Sam didn't comment. "I wasn't exactly a good kind of guy."

"What happened?" the Winchester asked, feeling concerned. He really liked Gabriel, and there was this odd feeling inside of his chest that he didn't want to dwell on.

"I never really cared about anyone, not since the dramatic breakup of my family years back. That was, until, I met a scraggly stranger who lumbered into my bar one day. He practically collapsed on a stool and asked for a salad."

The Winchester laughed. "You gave me your number on a napkin. I threw it away after I left, but I fished it out of the trashcan a few seconds later."

"I'm flattered Sam, I really am; but I think it's creepy that you remember all of that."

"Oh, and I'm _sure_ you don't remember anything specific either," Sam quipped sarcastically.

"If I did, I'm not going to tell you now- hey, are we here?" the former bartender exclaimed suddenly, pointing a finger down the road. Sure enough, a sign marked _Clancy, Montana_ was stark against the dull green of the pine trees behind it. Sam slowed the car, rolling casually into the town.

"Holy crap, I can't wait to get out and _stretch_," the shorter man sighed, throwing both hands behind his head and arching his back; a few popping sounds following.

"We'll stop here and eat," the hunter declared, pulling into the parking lot of a small bar called Chubby's. The building was old but extremely well kept. Their bulldog logo stared at them menacingly from atop the tall sign announcing the bar to travelers.

The hunter shut off the car and they both stepped out. At that point, it was getting dark. The temperature had dropped once again, and a light snow had begun to fall. Street lights flickered on all around them. The Winchester could see his breath in the air. He pulled his jacket tighter around himself.

Luckily, inside the bar was warm. A small fire crackled in a worn fireplace in the back wall. There were only a few patrons milling about, making quiet conversations in their own little world. It smelled vaguely of alcohol and food. The bartender was wiping down the counter with a damp washcloth when the two men sat down.

"What can I get you both?" the barkeeper asked kindly.

"Two Coors," Gabe said. "One for me and my friend."

"Right," he replied, and hurried away to collect the bottles.

"Hey, I'm just going to go to the bathroom," Gabe announced as soon as the man set their beers before them and the shorter man had cracked open the lid. With a quick sip, he got up and left.

Sam watched him leave, his mouth drawing into a thin line. Suddenly, he was struck with a thought. Gabriel was an odd person to say the least, and it was obvious that he was hiding something. But what could it be? Running a hand through his hair, he reached down and into the small backpack he had brought inside with them. Shuffling around the fabric bag, his hand brushed something cylindrical and metal. Grasping it, he lifted the cool flask out. It couldn't hurt, right?

Making sure nobody was looking; the Winchester quickly unscrewed the lid and poured a tiny stream of blessed water into his friend's beer. He shoved the flask into his pocket a second later, where it nestled against his hip.

"Is this seat taken?" a female voice asked from behind him.

Spinning around, Sam found himself face to face with a woman with brown hair and admittedly perfect eyebrows. She wore a black leather jacket, and her eyes were startlingly intense. She looked dangerous, but it wasn't her appearance that made the hunter feel the way he did. She just seemed to radiate some kind of power that made him want to take a step back.

Before he could give her a definite yes or no answer, she sat down, knees nearly touching his. He fought the urge to scoot away.

"You're new in town," she stated.

Sam nodded. "I'm looking for someone."

"Who?"

"Taller guy, dark brown hair, a short beard… He was here about a month ago?"

"Agent Willis?"

Recognizing one of his dad's favored aliases, Sam shook his head. "Yeah, that's him. Do you know where he went?" he questioned, reaching for his beer simultaneously. He took a drink and set it back down on the linoleum countertop.

"He was here for a week to investigate a wolf or a bear or something in the woods. It had been attacking people in the middle of the night. Whatever it was, he must have taken care of it because the next thing I know is that the attacks stop and he disappears."

"Did he talk to you?"

"No, but I overheard him speaking to the mayor. Small town," she explained.

"Do you know where he was staying?"

The woman raised one flawless eyebrow. "Why do you want to find him so much?"

Sam dug through his backpack, pulling out his fake FBI badge. He handed it to her, feeling surer of himself. "He went missing about a week and a half ago, and I'm just trying to bring him home," he lied. In all actuality, however, it wasn't that far from the truth.

"Agent Christopher Vanhike? I have to say, it really doesn't do you justice."

Was she flirting with him? For some reason, Sam felt more repulsed than attracted. Yes, she was drop-dead gorgeous, but somewhere deep down, he knew she was trouble.

She reached for Gabriel's drink, one pale arm outstretched like claws. Smiling through her long lashes, she lifted the neck to her lips. The moment the amber liquid touched her tongue, she retched, hissing. "What the Hell is this, battery fluid?"

The hunter did all he could not to flinch as she set the beer down roughly on the bar. A demon! She was a demon! Although he wasn't a stranger to dire situations, he was unarmed and Gabriel wasn't even aware that they were in danger. How was he supposed to protect him when the former bartender didn't even _know_ that there was a demon not two feet away; sitting daintily in the seat across from the Winchester?

"Uh, what did you say your name was?" Sam asked lowly, his hand discreetly entering his pocket and touching the metal flask of holy water. The hunter had no real plan at this point; he was relying on his instincts to get them out of there.

Wiping her mouth with the back of her sleeve, she answered. "Ruby. My name is Ruby."

"Thanks… Ruby. You've been a great help, but I think I can find my own way from here." He got to his feet, intent of finding his friend and getting the Hell out of dodge.

Suddenly, the demon sighed. "Damn you, Winchester. It was the beer that gave me away, wasn't it? That _had_ to have been dumb luck."

"What are you talking about?" the taller man countered, feeling a rising sense of dread.

"Look, I've been looking for you for a while now. Hey- don't give me that look! I want to help you!"

"Help me with what? You're a _demon_!" Sam hissed under his breath, just loud enough for the woman to hear him.

"Hey, that's racist," she chided. "I'm not your average demon."

"And why is that?"

"You know, human souls that go to Hell undergo extreme torture for years on end, no stop. Eventually, the soul becomes so twisted it forgets its human life and becomes the cruel monsters you see topside today," Ruby explained, grabbing for Sam's beer. Although this time, she merely twirled the bottle in her hands as opposed to taking a sip.

"So?"

"Well, I remember what it was like _before_. I remember my life."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"I want to help you find you dad, Sam. With my help, you could track him down much faster."

"I already have help," the hunter countered. "Besides, what makes you think I even believe you?"

Ruby laughed quietly. "This was your only lead on him. After this, you're looking at an entire continent blind."

"That still doesn't tell me why I should even trust you."

"Here, I've got this. It's not much, but I know you'll put it to good use. Consider it a gift." She pulled a leather-wrapped parcel out of her back jean pocket and handed it to him. He took it with great caution, turning it over in the palm of his hand.

"Go on, open it. It won't explode if that's what you're afraid of."

He pulled back the tough fabric. Incased inside was an old, metal hip flask; similar to the one practically burning a hole in his pocket at that very moment.

"What is it?" Sam asked, looking up at the woman still sitting casually on the stool; her fingers twisting the beer bottle like a schoolboy would to his pencil in the middle of math class.

"Holy oil. Kills just about anything, horribly mangles whatever it doesn't. That right there is a hot commodity, so I wouldn't let anyone know you have it." She gave him what looked to be a genuine smile.

"Thanks… I guess," he said reluctantly, examining the bottle further. It was engraved with archaic symbols, discolored and untranslatable. He returned his gaze to Ruby, but somehow she had disappeared.


	25. Chapter 25

**Author's Note**

**Wow, 103 followers! I realize I haven't properly thanked you all for sticking with me for so long, so I'd like to do that now. Thank you all so much, if it hadn't been for you guys, life would be considerably more horrible. Your comments make my day, and it's been a wild ride watching Bad Boys climb up the filtered fanfiction pages. So thank you for making this idea a success. You all are fantastic, and I can't possibly tell you how much you all mean to me; so I'll just settle for thanking you again. Thanks!**

**(Oh, and Heather, if you make it this far; sorry for pestering you so much.)**

Chapter 25: The Story of Sam Winchester

It wasn't long after the Winchester carefully hid the archaic flask in his backpack when Gabriel returned, an easy smile in place. Sam watched him nonchalantly stride over to where he was sitting, and plop down on the worn stool across from him. The hunter's eyes flicked quickly to his friend's beer and back again, checking to see if it had noticeably moved. It hadn't.

For a moment, Sam wanted to show his new possession, the holy oil, to the former bartender; just to see what he'd make of it. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but caught himself. Something was stopping him.

"What is it, kiddo?"

"I… wanted to know if you'd want to head out soon. It's late and we need to find a place to stay for the night." He thought quickly. Gabriel didn't seem to notice anything off, much to Sam's relief.

"Why the rush? Let's just hang here for a while, we never do that," the shorter man protested.

The Winchester rubbed the back of his neck, thoughtful. "I don't know, Gabe," he said. Sam was sure that he wanted to leave this town as soon as they could. It was an understatement saying that he felt uncomfortable knowing that Ruby, a demon, was watching them. Sure, the hunter was very good at taking care of himself, but it wasn't as if he had a lot of experience with Hell's spawn. And the experiences he had had with them were unshakably horrible, to say the least.

"Who the Hell cares about John? We're not going to find him tonight, so let your hair down, Samsquatch. Take a breather."

He hesitated for a moment. It was true, unless the older Winchester decided to pay them a visit; they weren't going to gain any headway. It wasn't as if they'd be any safer at a motel. "Fine," he sighed.

"Finally!" Gabriel exclaimed. He grabbed his beer bottle by the neck and downed half of its contents in one go. The holy water was still in there, mixed with the cheap alcohol. Sam flinched as the amber liquid sloshed around the glass, but the shorter man didn't seem to notice. He breathed a sigh of relief; his friend wasn't a demon. Feeling a little bit better about the situation, he sat a little straighter.

"So how are you feeling?" the former bartender asked, leaning in.

"At the height of health," Sam answered, rolling his eyes. "How do you think I feel?"

Gabe held his hands up in a mock surrender. "Don't shoot the messenger, Sammy. You know, I'm allowed to care about you."

"I know that," the hunter answered, feeling a little guilty. He needed to cut the man a break. "I'm sorry. I feel good, all things considering."

"Glad to hear it. I'm peachy, thanks for asking."

Sam snorted, but didn't deign to reply.

"Can I ask you a question without you getting all pouty?" the former bartender asked, looking serious. The Winchester wasn't quite sure he liked the direction the conversation was going.

"Uh, sure?" he answered. His voice sounded unsure even to his own ears.

"Why did you stay?"

"Stay?" he inquired, confusion written all over his face.

"Why did you stay with John all of those years, hunting?" his friend clarified. "I know you're good at it, but I think I know you well enough at this point to say that you'd do perfectly fine on your own. You could have gone to college, maybe gotten yourself a girlfriend, and had a well-paying job by now."

"It's more complicated than that."

"I don't think it is kiddo," Gabe retorted. The tone he used wasn't unkind; he sounded genuinely curious. "Explain it to me."

Sam wasn't thrilled about the idea of baring his heart to Gabriel, even if he _was_ his friend. Years of loneliness and hardship were tied to his hunting career; the people he'd lost, the things he'd done… Years that the Winchester wanted to forget.

"Please?" his friend asked. "I want to help."

Gabriel had told Sam of his family, and he guessed it was only fair that he did too. Taking a deep breath, the hunter began.

"It wasn't always like this…"

_The media covered the house fire like they would to any other fire. Perhaps there would be a few days of footage, maybe even a comment from a neighbor, describing the tragedy. The local newscaster pointed out that a woman had died, the loving mother of two. Their father was deemed a hero, having been able to get the two boys out before the entire structure exploded dramatically._

_Nobody really noticed when all three seemingly disappeared off the map. Sam remembered nothing of those early months, save for the occasional flash of road from his spot atop Dean's lap._

_The trio jumped from place to place, never staying long. The older Winchester brother would later relate to Sam that he had suspected that their father was running from something. He wasn't stupid enough to ask what._

_The first real memory Sam had was a nondescript motel, somewhere further south than they normally travelled. John was bent over something on a creaking desk, shoved in the corner of the room. Dean was gazing longingly out the window, and Sam had a toy soldier in his mouth._

_Suddenly, there had been the soft sound of music coming from outside._

"_Dad, the ice-cream truck is coming!" Dean squealed in a high-pitched voice. "Can I take Sammy and go get some?" he exclaimed in question, vibrating._

_John, who up to that moment had been enjoying the peace and quiet, only grunted in answer, not looking up from his work._

"_Please?" the older brother asked again._

"_Not today, Dean."_

_Sam hadn't quite understood what was going on. He looked blankly from their father to his older brother, the toy solider falling wetly from his mouth in the process. Dean seemed to be thinking hard on something. Dad was ignoring them both again._

"_We're gonna go outside," he suddenly announced, scooping Sam from the floor._

"_Stay in the yard then," John told them sternly. "I don't want to have to come looking for you both, okay?"_

_Sam watched his older brother nod fervently. Dean carried the ever-growing youngest Winchester out the door and into the light of a glaringly hot day. There hadn't been a cloud in the stark, blue sky. The asphalt road burned any grass near it to a brown crisp, heat rising off the black tar in waves. The only shade was a few inches near the motel, casted by the slightly-outstretched roof. The air carried the stagnant scent of dryness. Sam listened as the cheery music of what was apparently an ice-cream truck neared their location._

"_Sammy, do you want to get a popsicle?" The older Winchester asked._

_He responded with a few semi-distinguishable, babbled words._

"_I have some money here, see?" Dean said, pulling a handful of dull coins from the pockets of his too-large shorts. "I've been saving."_

"_Toys?" the younger Winchester asked, reaching out for the quarters Dean was clutching in a tight, chubby fist._

"_No Sammy. I'll buy you something better. Watch!" He told his little brother, heading down to the street just as a white truck rounded the corner. It slowed to a stop upon seeing the little boy, and a man leaned out the window. Sam couldn't quite hear what they were saying, but he found that he didn't particularly care as Dean returned; two plastic-wrapped parcels in hand._

_Most of his popsicle ended up on the dirt, but neither of them noticed._

_As Sam grew up, he began to notice things. Most families never strayed far from their roots, and those that did settled down fairly quickly. Not once did he ever meet anyone who lived on the road like they did. Jumping from school to school, he tried the best he could to make friends, but he didn't quite fit in. Upon finally integrating himself into a group, John would whisk them away to the next small town._

_Dean hadn't been a lot of help. "We've got each other, isn't that enough?" he had said to his little brother through a mouth of chips one afternoon. No, it really wasn't enough, but Sam dropped the matter._

_The longer they travelled, the stranger he knew they were. Nobody else's father disappeared during the night only to return, battered and bruised, the next morning or passed out on one of the beds. Their father's had jobs, like being doctors and lawyers or construction workers. The youngest Winchester began asking questions._

"_What does dad do?" he asked._

"_Dad's a secret agent," Dean said seriously. "But you can't tell anyone, okay?"_

_Sam believed that for a few weeks. It made sense, in his still-immature mind. But then they moved to another town, and something changed._

_John and Dean fought. He, to this day, still wasn't sure what it had been over, but it hardly mattered. That night, his older brother had been out, so Sam decided to just go to bed. Turning off the dying lights, he climbed under the ratty covers that were so familiar to him and drifted off to sleep. It seemed that that had been his first mistake._

_He was cold when he awoke. It felt as if someone had taken a straw and sucked the life out of him. Sitting up, Sam flinched seeing a ghastly figure, dressed in ancient cloth, hovering silently by the window. The moon illuminated its silhouette as it opened the glass pane. Like a dream, it flowed inside as solid water, approaching the frozen Winchester without the lowest sound._

_The Winchester had never been more terrified in his entire life. What the Hell was this thing? It was a gut feeling, knowing that whatever it was, it wasn't natural. This dementor-esque being was an abomination._

_The black figure reached an arm towards him. This was it, he was done for._

_Bam! The motel door flew open, and John was there; a sawed-off shotgun in hand. "Get down!" he shouted, aiming the weapon at the creature. Without a second thought, he dropped to the floor, hands over his head. There was a loud noise, followed shortly by the shattering sound of the window. The thing screeched, swirling angrily and escaping back into the night._

"_Where's Dean?" John asked harshly, pulling Sam off the floor._

_That's when the waterworks started. "I don't know; what was that?" he exclaimed through shallow tears._

_Speak of the devil, his older brother walked in not a moment later; carrying a soda in one hand. "Sam? Dad?" he asked; face paling. "What happened in here?"_

"_Where the Hell were you? Why weren't you watching him?" John shouted, and Sam viewed as his face grew red in fury._

_Dean didn't respond. He looked almost as shell-shocked as the younger brother himself._

"_I told you to never leave Sam!" their father exclaimed. "He could have died tonight, and it would have been entirely your fault!"_

_The older brother took a shaking breath, eyes flitting over to his brother. The youngest Winchester hiccupped. He could have died tonight, yeah; he'd admit that. But that hadn't been Dean's fault, right?_

_John seemed to be at a loss for words. His expression dark, the older man took a threatening step forward, bending down as to be at the older brother's eye level. Quietly, he spoke. "Do not disappoint me again."_

_In hindsight, Dean hadn't seemed quite the same afterwards. There was hardly a time when he let Sam be truly alone._

_What had that thing been, back at that motel? He was sure he hadn't imagined it, and it had been fairly obvious that it wasn't perfectly human. So, like a true Winchester, he began to do some digging. He observed every detail from then on, trying to figure out exactly what it was that he was missing. The first thing he noticed was the journal._

_The journal was one of those aspects that Sam hadn't ever really questioned; it had just always been there. John's most prized possession. Naturally, that made the youngest Winchester suspicious; why was it so important? What was written inside?_

_One night when both his older brother and father were preoccupied with the dark car outside, he rooted around through John's belongings. The older man only kept a single bag of necessities, so the process went fairly quickly. Before he knew it, he had gone through the bag twice, finding nothing. The journal, it seemed, had disappeared._

_Sam frowned, glancing to the door. He didn't have a lot of time; they would walk in on him at any moment. He looked through the nightstand, the bookshelf and the rickety desk, still coming up empty-handed. Where could it possibly be? Then he recalled; John had a habit of sticking things under the mattress, hiding them from prying eyes and maids. Quickly, the young Winchester dove forward, lifting up the bed. Underneath was the journal, in all its worn glory._

_Feeling giddy, he grabbed it and shoved it under his shirt, slipping into the bathroom. As a precaution, Sam wrenched on the shower, allowing the falling water to mask his true purpose. John and Dean would assume that he was taking a shower, allowing him time to skim through the book._

_He sat on the anything-but-white toilet, setting the journal on his lap. Without a thought as to the consequences, Sam opened the first page._

_The initial thing that jumped out at him was the black, ink-drawn, grotesque face of what looked to be a snarling wolf of a man. Its fangs stood out, stark white against the crude lines that seemed to be fur. There was small writing towards the bottom of the page. Instead of reading it, Sam began to skim._

_The next few pages held much of the same. A small girl, clad in a white, blood-stained dress, met his gaze. She stared back, her eyeless sockets looking blankly into space. A tall man, his skin tattooed with odd markings. A gaunt woman, mouth full of jagged, sharp teeth. Someone ripping their own skin off to reveal that of another person._

_Sam shuddered, closing the cover and setting it on the sink. He felt… anxious, fearful even. But, there was no way any of that could be real. It defied the laws of nature, something Sam had always had a lot of faith in._

_He would ask Dean. His father and brother had always shared some kind of bond; maybe not a healthy one, but a bond nevertheless. Therefore, the elder brother would be privy to information that he wasn't. If he was to find out the truth, it would be from him. Quietly, he shut off the shower and opened the door slightly, peering out. Luckily enough, the room was still empty._

_Without a second thought, Sam was able to place the journal back in its hiding place and switch on the television, pretending to watch. Not long after he had finally relaxed, Dean made his appearance._

"_Where's dad?" Sam asked, watching as his older brother brush the trash from the other bed and onto the floor._

"_He said he had stuff to do, so it's just you and me tonight. Want to watch a movie? I found a Batman disk yesterday outside that pawn shop on the way into town."_

"_Uh, no. That's alright."_

_Dean threw him an odd look. "Are you okay?"_

_Sam flinched, but quickly covered it with a cough. The older brother frowned, looking more intensely at the youngest Winchester. "What's wrong, Sammy?"_

_It was now or never. "Are monsters real?" he asked, refusing to meet his brother's gaze._

"_What would make you ask that?"_

"_Are they?"_

_Dean was silent._

"_I read dad's journal. You don't have to lie to me."_

_More than anything, Sam wanted him to laugh off his question. He wanted him to exclaim "of course not, Sammy!" and maybe ruffle his hair. He wanted someone to assure him that these crazy delusions were just that; crazy delusions._

_But when Dean nodded slowly, Sam slipped._

"_Dad's like a superhero," he tacked on, "Dad won't let anything hurt us. He hunts them. It's his job; and he's the best," Dean finished with conviction._

_Sam nodded, pretending that –just like that- everything was okay again. For the first time since he was little, he cried that night._

_The years went by faster after that. Things changed faster too. The next thing he knew, Dean was gone. Sure, the younger brother had been despondent, but eventually he'd realized that it was for the best. The life of a Winchester wasn't easy, and he was glad that Dean had found a smoother road._

_John on the other hand seemed to lose himself in his work. It was true that he was absorbed _before_ Dean's departure; but it was different now. He wasn't _living_ any longer._

_Apparently, his father had decided that Sam was now heir to the throne, so to speak. They would spend long hours of the day in various empty fields out in the middle of nowhere. John drilled Sam on everything, shaping his body and mind for the job that would one day consume the youngest Winchester. They would work in the heat of summer into the cold of winter, never relenting._

_Sam remembered those days bitterly. He hadn't just lost Dean; he had lost his dad too. Eventually, John deemed him ready to help out on jobs. Hunting came naturally to him. He would help track down monster after monster, saving lives in the process. By that time, he was well into his teenage years._

_They fought constantly. The younger Winchester longed for a life outside of the bloodshed and constant travelling. John fought against this idea savagely._

"_I don't want to do this anymore," he had proclaimed one day during a particularly long trip on the road._

"_We've spoken about this before, Sam. I told you no."_

"_You've never given me a good reason why," he retorted staunchly._

"_Because I said so."_

"_I can take care of myself, dad."_

"_No you can't. Remember that werewolf hunt last month?"_

_It was like rubbing salt into an open, festering wound. They had been hunting werewolves in South Dakota. A class of fourth graders had been attacked by a pack; those who hadn't been killed were dragged away into the vast wilderness of the state. John and Sam just happened to be in the area upon hearing of the incident. They were on the case immediately._

_The werewolves had been sloppy. Leaving a trail, the Winchester's followed the carnage right up to an old, dilapidated cottage out in the middle of nowhere. Inside were the remaining students, shaken up but otherwise healthy._

_Of course, the trip back wasn't nearly as easy as the trip in._

_By that time it had been dark, the full moon out in strength; hanging in the night sky. John was in the front of the group, a pistol cocked. The youngest Winchester was trailing up the back, watching warily for the slightest sign of danger._

_He didn't notice her change until too late. One of the children, a sickly blonde girl, suddenly shrieked in pain. It was surreal. The way her finger nails distended into thick claws, her face taking on a beastly quality, teeth elongating until they reached immaculate points. It was too late to stop her as she lunged for the nearest fourth grader._

_Out from the black trees poured more beasts. There were probably six in all, but at the time it had seemed like an army. One of them knocked the gun from his hand. It skidded away somewhere into the leaves._

_Wrestling for the knife at his side, he slashed the werewolf, driving it backwards. But where one was gone, two more took its place. As he fought off the attackers, Sam noticed the lone figure of a petrified girl against the foliage background. She cowered as a large man approached her, teeth glistening in the moonlight._

_Sam could do nothing but watch as he sprung, claws sinking into her skin._

"_I remember," the young hunter said, letting the subject drop._


	26. Chapter 26

**Author's Note (Please Read!)**

**Hey guys, as some of you know; I update my profile with information concerning breaks, scheduling and other important information. I will be taking a ****three week break in December**** in order to get caught up on writing. I'm really sorry, but it's been weird lately and I just can't keep up. While I won't be posting chapters, I will still be online and I will still answer ay messages sent my way. Thanks for your consideration, and I hope you all will stick around until I return. Thanks!**

Chapter 26: Revival

The big window on the outer wall showed the snow as it fell; dream-like, downwards. It was pitch-black outside, save for the dimly-lit porch of the bar. They were the only people left inside, save for the quiet bartender; cleaning dishes in the far corner of the building.

Even though the air was warm, Sam felt a chill creep up his spine as he finally finished telling his story. They both sat in complete, deafening silence. Sam wrought his hands together under the table, rubbing them together nervously.

"Sam…" eventually the shorter man said in a low, gravelly tone.

"It's okay," the Winchester comforted. The last thing Sam wanted was for Gabriel's empathy. The hunter wanted a partner; not a guardian.

"I know what you're going to say. I don't need your pity," the last word came out sharper than he had intended. Clearing his throat, he continued. "It's my life, and I don't want to change it for anything. What happened to me made me who I am today. Even if I'm not as good as I would like to be, it's still _me_."

Gabriel looked like he was on the verge of saying something, but the hunter cut him off. "No, you don't get a turn yet," he commanded. The former bartender gave him a serious look, but the taller man ignored him. "Hell, if it wasn't for me, a lot of people would still be alive. But you know what? Even more people would be six feet under; breathing in a mouthful of dirt and bugs."

The other man was quiet now. The former bartender had an odd look on his face, and he hadn't taken his eyes off of Sam's yet.

"I do what I can to help, and yeah; I'm not always right. I understand that. It kills me, but I get it. You can't save everyone. John knew that, and even when Dean left, he still tried. Dad's methods weren't always _good_, but I still wouldn't have traded him for anyone else."

At this point, the former bartender looked like he was about to shit an egg covered in spikes. "Would you shut up already?" Gabriel exclaimed in exasperation, leaping off of his chair and practically falling into Sam's lap, sealing his lips over Sam's own.

Gabe was _kissing_ him.

_Caramel, why does he smell like caramel?_ Was the first thing that popped into Sam's blown mind. At first, the hunter was too shocked to do much else than stare at Gabe grabbing his shoulder and dragging him forward until they were breathing each other's air. After a few seconds of nonresponsive shock, he took a handful of the back of his friend's canvas jacket and kissed back; inhaling his sweet scent and smiling against the other's lips.

Sam had always prided himself on being an above-average kisser. He'd had his fair share of high school in-the-broom-closet escapades. But _holy butter on toast_, Gabrielwasn't kidding around. He had to stop this soon, because that region that never sees the light of day was  
rearing its head.

Luckily however, it wasn't the Winchester that had to intervene.

"Uh, guys?" a timid male voice said from behind the counter. It was the bartender, whose face was redder than a tomato. "I'd hate to, uh, break this up, but I need to close the shop," he struggled, not making eye contact.

Gabriel drew back with a gasp, his eyes dark and his coat disheveled. He didn't take his gaze off of the hunter for a moment. Sam coughed in embarrassment, feeling his face grow pink. His heart was beating faster than a horse's hooves during the last league of a race. He was sure that Gabe could hear it, especially considering he was still sitting in his lap.

"Uh, now?" the bartender asked, wringing his hands as he glanced up at the hunter and his friend.

"You heard him, Sammy," Gabe smirked, his eyes alight with mirth.

Oh, Sam wasn't going to trust his voice. Instead, he settled for glaring at the shorter man, a look he'd _hoped_ would strike fear into his friend's heart; but instead the man in question merely snorted and leaned in to peck the Winchester on the forehead before sliding to the ground.  
In hindsight, he may have accidentally hit the 'adorable puppy' look instead. The taller man watched, eyes wide, as his friend sauntered away. Blinking stupidly, he shot the bartender a dazed look, getting up to follow him.

The hunter pretended not to hear the sigh of relief from behind him as he opened the door and stepped out into the frozen night.

The air was much colder than it had been earlier. The sky was overcast, and the snow was still coming down steadily. It smelled like the cold; that certain dry chill that bites with every breath. They stood alone in the parking lot. The only light was the dull yellow lamp that hung on the side of the building.

"Are you okay, kiddo?" Gabe asked, noticing the stunned look on the hunter's face.

Sam nodded silently, not being able to take his eyes off of the shorter man.

"We should find a motel for the night, I don't really want to sleep in the Impala between a hard seat and _you_," Gabriel went on to say.

"Why…?" the Winchester managed, his mouth drawing out into a thin line.

"Why what?"

He glared at the shorter man lightly. "You know what. Why did you… you know…"

"I never would have tagged you for a prude," the former bartender chuckled, stepping closer to the taller man. "Well, I'm just as surprised as you are; it was a heat of the moment sort of deal. I kissed you because you're a selfless bastard, and I really can't help but like you. After all, who can?"

"Selfless?" Sam questioned, "I'm anything but selfless." In all actuality, the hunter was amazed how, even after he had told his story, his friend didn't hate him. There were some dark things in his past; things that would make most people run away and never look back. Yet, Gabe hadn't done that.

"Don't make me shut you up again," Gabriel threatened. "That's enough angst for tonight. You, Sam Winchester, are the most noble, independent man I have ever met. You're so blinded by helping others that you can't even see yourself anymore." He grabbed Sam's jacket sleeve harshly, yanking the taller man forward. "I want to help you _see_ yourself again."

The hunter wasn't sure how to respond to that. Just then, a particularly hard gust of wind whipped up the cumulated snow off the ground and blew it into the Winchester's face. He hissed, hands shooting up to his exposed skin; losing balance and falling backwards. Sam landed with a heavy thud on the asphalt, the cold, wet ground seeping into his jeans.

Gabriel was silent for a moment before bursting into peals of laughter.

"It's not funny!" the hunter protested, clambering to his feet and wiping the dirt from his backside.

The former bartender was too busy snickering to retort. He was doubled over, sides heaving. That's when the Winchester got an idea. Rushing to the edge of the parking lot where an old bank of dirty snow was kept, he quickly formed a large snowball and hurled it, with all his speed and accuracy from years of hunting, straight at his friend's head. It struck with a wet _psht_, spraying bits of snow and ice everywhere. The laughter stopped instantly.

Slowly, Gabriel turned to look at the hunter; a red mark evident on his cheek even in the low lighting. "You want to play that way, huh?"

Sam wasn't entirely sure where he had gotten the snowball from, but he barely managed to dodge the projectile. It whisked by his face, missing by inches. Eyes wide, the Winchester dove for the snow bank again.

Another snowball came at him, this time striking him in the back. The taller man laughed, returning fire. Gabriel got out of the way in time, falling to the left and climbing over a wall of snow.

"You can't beat me, Sam! I _invented_ this game!" his voice came, muffled, from the other side of his impromptu fort.

"Just because you think you're the best, doesn't mean you are!" he called out, laughing. Sam snuck behind the Impala; arms full of snow. The area was quiet for a moment as both men gathered themselves, undoubtedly preparing for an attack. The Winchester listened, hoping to gain some clue as to the whereabouts of his friend; but he was unprepared as a sharp, stinging sensation bloomed at the back of his head.

"I told you, I can't lose!" Gabriel announced from behind him. Sam spun around, just in time to see a snowball hitting him in the face. "I could do this all night!"

It was time to unleash Hell. Sam wiped the debris out of his eyes and launched his own snowballs at his friend. He hurled snowball after snowball, hitting the other man square in the chest. The moment Gabe managed to get a shot in his face again, one of his projectiles missed, flying straight over Gabriel's head, and striking the bartender; who had just finished closing up the store.

"I thought you guys left?" the man asked, looking unbelievingly at the two men. They froze, exchanging glances.

"Uh, we were just leaving," Sam answered, looking seriously at Gabe; who nodded in response.

"Please do that," the bartender exclaimed. When nobody moved, he waved one arm in the direction of the road. "The sooner the better!"

Sam's fingers were numb and stiff as he attempted to unlock the black car. The keys clattered against the frame, creating thin scratch marks that made the Winchester flinch.

"Here, let me," his friend offered, taking the keys from him. Gabe's fingers were blisteringly warm as they brushed up against his own. Soon, the doors were open and Sam took his rightful place as designated driver of the vehicle. Gabe slid into the passenger seat, looking unreasonably pleased with himself.

"So long," the bartender quipped sarcastically.

The engine started, and they pulled out of the parking lot; leaving the scent of gasoline in their wake.

Gabe cranked up the heat, letting the warm air wash over the interior of the Impala. The vents rattled, the sound of long-forgotten Legos jostling around the metal. Outside the snow came down harder. Sam suspected there would be a storm that night.

As they drove through the weather, Sam considered just how lucky he truly was. Although he had never had a home, he always had people to make him feel wanted. At first, it had been Dean, and now it was Gabriel's turn. Even though the Winchester was likely damned for all eternity –killing, stealing, various other crimes; not to mention that little thing about the demon blood- he sure as all crap was going to enjoy the ride.

Luckily, they found a motel fairly quickly. The building was clean and intact, making it one of the more upscale places Sam had the pleasure of staying. Pulling to a halt and parking the car, they stepped outside into the hissing wind and sleet.

"If it snows any harder, I'll finally be able to coin the nickname 'Sam the Snowman'," Gabriel commented with a grin, wrapping his coat around himself tighter and pulling their bags out of the backseat.

The hunter snorted, but didn't reply. Together, they headed for the main office.

Inside the main building was warm, smelling of firewood and coffee. There was a lit fireplace in the corner of the room, crackling and popping reverently. The lady at the desk seemed surprised at their sudden appearance; but, to her credit, she didn't comment.

"A room for the night please," the taller man asked, placing his fake credit card onto the counter. Nodding, the woman punched something on the keyboard, took the card and slid it through a machine, and then handed them a key labeled _Room 23_.

"Have a nice stay," she said.

Giving her a smile and a polite nod, they turned and left.

They walked down the hallway, making quiet small talk as they went. Turning a corner, Sam was surprised when he ran smack into someone.

"Oh, uh, excuse m-" the hunter began, but stopped short as he saw who exactly it was that he had run into. The man was on the taller side. He wore an old leather jacket and a worn ball cap, his dark hair sticking out at the end. Upon seeing the Winchester, he started; leaping backwards.

"_Lance_?"

Lance flinched, taking a few steps backwards. "Sam? What the Hell are you _doing_ here?"

"I take it you two know each other?" Gabe quipped, looking worriedly from the stranger to his friend. Unfortunately, they both ignored him.

"What am _I _doing here?" the younger of the two hunters hissed. "Forget me, what are _you_ doing here?"

Lance puffed out his chest slightly. "Wouldn't _you_ like to know? I've been avoiding you since Alexander Plateau."

"Why would he be avoiding you?" the former bartender asked Sam.

A look of malevolence passed over the older hunter's face as he answered instead of the Winchester. "Don't you know what this kid here is capable of? He's damn scary. A monster."

_A monster_, Sam thought, his face draining of blood. That name had chased him for years. Throughout his hunting career he'd done bad things, evil things. Hunters and victims alike would fear him, calling him _freak_ or _monster_ or _inhuman_. Nobody seemed to notice the disruption in Sam's breathing or how his eyes dropped to the floor.

Lance kept speaking. "Last time I saw him, he nearly took my head off."

"You had information I needed," Sam responded darkly.

"So what? You threaten me to get it?" Lance hissed, stepping forward and poking the taller man sharply in the chest. "I won't make the same mistake twice, _Winchester_," he spat. The dark-haired man motioned to his neck, where a long, dark, scar was positioned. "See this? That's from you."

The Winchester shrank in on himself and cast a quick glance at the shorter man. Gabriel, however, still wasn't looking at him.

"I was just trying to keep you safe, Sam." Lance said lowly, his expression taking on a pitying quality. "But I can tell that it didn't make any difference. You went anyways, and here you are. Demons aren't ones to be tampered with," he swore.

"It's my job to save people, and I can't do that if I don't know what I'm dealing with," Sam argued. It was true; there was little he wouldn't do to save innocent lives.

"You'll only get yourself killed."

Sam scoffed. As if that mattered.

The Winchester looking accusingly at the other hunter. "So, you're the only one allowed to get involved?"

"It's not like I particularly _wanted_ to get involved," Lance deadpanned. "I didn't have a choice."

"Neither did I," Sam hissed. "I don't know a hunter out there who wants to hunt; but we do what we need to."

The man scoffed. "Like Hell that's true." He stopped speaking for a moment, looking more sincere than before. "Walk away Sam. Get out of this town, go find yourself a house, get a job, and just _stay out_."

"That sounded like a threat," the Winchester frowned.

"It's not a threat, it's a warning," Lance said, leaning in slightly.

"Thanks but no thanks," Sam retorted.

"Wait," Gabe began, stopping the taller man from walking away by grabbing the back of his coat. "Why do you care? From what I see, you hate my friend here's guts."

"I don't hate him," Lance declared, "But I don't _like_ him," he said, turning to Sam with a certain disinclination on his face.

"Then why do you care?" Gabe demanded.

The older hunter looked uncomfortable now. He shifted from foot to foot, looking intently at their surroundings. "Because," he shrugged, "He's John's son; a good man."

He was lying, it was obvious to Sam. There was something more, something he wasn't willing to let on. Sam considered Lance. He seemed pale, sallow even. There was a haunted look in his eyes that he noticed last time they had met, back in the parking lot before he'd even known of the existence of Azazel and had still been skeptical of demons.

"Now I don't believe that for a moment," shot the former bartender. "Why do you _really_ care? If it's not about Sam, then what's in it for you?"

"There's nothing in it for me," Lance hissed. "There's nothing _left_ for me!"

"What do you mean there's nothing left for you?" the taller hunter asked.

"Never mind," the other man stated. "Look, I know why you're here. John passed through about a month ago. I overheard some people talking about it at the local bar last week."

"Do you know where he went?" Sam demanded.

"No one was sure, but he was with some girl."

"A girl? Who?" the younger hunter questioned.

"I don't have a name for you, but she was a short blonde girl. Apparently she didn't talk much."

Sam hummed, taking in everything he said.

"Listen," Lance began, "Sam; you need to get out while you still can. I'm serious."

The man seemed serious enough. But what was it that he wasn't telling them? Unfortunately, the Winchester was certain that he wouldn't be able to get it out of him without pinning him up against a wall again. Sam weighed the options in his mind.

They all stood motionless, waiting for someone to make their move. Being a man of action, naturally it was Sam who spoke up first. "Thank you for telling us about John," he sighed. "But keep your ideas to yourself."

"Sam-" Lance exclaimed, reaching out for him. "Let me explain!"

"Let's go Gabriel."

The hunter started down the hallway, not checking to see if his friend was following him, but listening for the padding of his shoes nevertheless.

Gabriel sighed, following his friend to their room. This Lance player was interesting, and he'd be damned to Hell if he didn't at least try to find out more about him.


	27. Chapter 27

**Author's Note: Hey guys, I apologize for being away for so long! I've been sidetracked working on my other book (which I plan to be published one day), so I've put this one on the backburner. I'll update the first Sunday of every month as of January 13****th****, 2015. Thank you all for sticking around for so long; I appreciate each and every single one of you all! Thank you!**

Chapter 27: Reality Check

ooo

"Look, I think we should just get a good night's sleep," Gabe was saying as he shut the motel room door behind them. It locked with a metallic _click_. "It's been a long day."

Sam grunted in affirmation, dropping his bag next to one of the two twin beds. The room was neat, mint-colored walls stood stark against the crème carpeting. There were a few photographs of landscapes hung by the one large window, depicting mountains in blue ink. The whole area stunk of lemon soap and the oil diffuser stuck on a shelf by the small, open closet.

"Look, I don't care what your friend said; in fact, I don't believe it." He stated confidently, striding into the hunter's personal space like a peacock. The hunter wanted to feel amused, but for some reason he couldn't bring himself to.

"And why not?" Sam asked; a frown evident.

"Because I know you too well, kiddo. You're good, and that's certainly _not_ good."

For a moment, the Winchester had a sudden, wild urge to laugh. Was he joking? "I'm not a saint like you make me out to be, Gabriel," he announced, taking in the confused expression on his friend's face.

"I'm not sure I'm following," he said cautiously.

Abruptly, the taller man took a step backwards. "I _attacked_ him, Gabe; he had information I needed. I held a knife to his throat as I demanded him to talk to me," he snarled. "You act like you know me so well, but you don't know me at all!"

Gabriel hesitated. "I'm sure you didn't mean to cut so _deep_…"

Sam clenched his jaw. "I think I meant to cut deeper."

His friend was silent, looking up at the Winchester, considering him deeply. The taller man resolved to keep his stature; but he could already feel his demeanor waver. He wasn't certain he wanted to lose Gabe quite yet. Gabriel was his friend; and already he was quickly becoming more than that.

Most of what happened in Sam's life was his own fault. He never had gotten the hang of protecting the people he loved the most. Inevitable they all left him; Mary, Dean, and now John… It was only a matter of time before his last friend left as well. He had scared them all away; and now he knew why. The Winchester was literally cursed. What person –hunter even- had demons chasing after them? What hunter had _demon_ blood forced upon them during infancy? What hunter was as screwed up as he was? He was a _freak_, something from a story used to scare kids into being good.

No man should ever have to know Sam. He almost felt pity stirring in his gut for Gabriel, having to manage the Winchester daily. But he couldn't force himself to push the former bartender away. He cared about him too much, and Sam was too selfish to lose yet another family member.

"You've come a long way, Sam." Gabriel began. "From a naïve little kid to what you are today. And what you are today isn't _evil_, not by a long shot. I've never seen anyone as pure as you, someone who cares so deeply about anyone else. Not once in my life! Your moral compass in practically engraved in gold and platinum. And trust me; I know how to tell a good egg from the bad ones."

"That can't possibly be true," Sam argued. "I've hurt people, Gabe. I've killed and I've tortured and I've destroyed the people in my life. No one should have to be around me."

"I _want_ to be around you, kiddo," the former bartender said softly. "Nothing will change that, ever."

"Then you're an idiot," the Winchester announced. "Even when I was a kid, I never felt… pure. When I was little, Dean used to read to me before bed. He'd read from King Arthur's tales and I remember knowing that I could never be like them because I wasn't good enough, I wasn't clean enough. Now I _know_ I can't."

"And why not?"

"Because I have demon blood in me!" Sam nearly shouted. "I'm a monster!"

Gabriel seemed taken aback for a moment, almost as if he had forgotten about that certain element. Cautiously, the shorter man reached out and put a comforting hand on Sam's arm. "You are not a monster. You have a disease, true; but you don't have to let it eat away what you are. You've always been your own person, Sam."

"Then I'm a freak of my own right," he growled. "I don't need the blood as an excuse."

Suddenly, Gabriel removed his hand and sighed, moving to sit down on one of the two twin beds. "I think it's time I told you a few things. Would you sit down?"

"What does this have to do with what we were just talking about?" the hunter asked, still tense and upset.

"You'll see, just give me a chance," Gabe evaded, looking uncomfortable now. Confused, Sam allowed the other man to guide him to the spot on his left. They sat in silence for a moment, each gathering their thoughts. His friend shifted so they were facing one another now.

"What I'm about to tell you may be a little surprising," the Archangel started. Gabriel fidgeted nervously with the cuff of his jacket sleeve. There was no doubt at this point that he was a crazy idiot. Before he had started this fate-defying mission, he'd come up with two rules. Rule one? Don't give away his true identity. Rule two? Don't reveal his true purpose, if at all possible. And here he was about to break one of them.

"When I said I was a specialist, I lied. Just a little, though."

"You what? Why?" Sam asked, his eyebrows furrowing.

"It wasn't exactly the truth. Remember when I told you that I was looking for you specifically when we had first met?"

"When you told me I had demon blood. I remember," he replied somberly.

"There's something else I never told you." There was a lot of stuff he never told the Winchester, and he really hoped he would never have to.

The hunter was expressionless now. The trickster hoped to his father that he wasn't making a colossal mistake by telling his friend this. He just didn't know what else to do. The last thing he wanted on the planet right now was for Sam to hurt.

Taking a deep breath, he looked away from the Winchester and towards the window. "You are meant to begin the end of days; better known as the apocalypse. You are meant to free Lucifer from Hell and destroy the Earth."

It was absolutely quiet.

Taking a risk, the Archangel peered back at Sam. He was staring at him, questions burning in his eyes. Sam's mouth was hanging open like a fish taken from water. He was rigid, his tall frame looking eerie and plastic as he sat motionless in shock.

"W-what? Are you joking?" he finally managed to blurt out.

"I wish I was; kiddo."

"The apocalypse? That's insane! You don't honestly expect me to believe that, right?"

The trickster felt a little insulted at that last comment. "You're a hunter! You must have considered it at some point, right?"

"Sure, maybe I have in the past; but I can't be the one to _start_ it! I would never do anything like that!"

"You just got done yelling at me about how you are a monster, and you've hurt and killed people before. How is this any different?" Gabriel accused, jumping to his feet, feeling the adrenalin rush through his veins. As soon as the words had left his mouth however, he instantly regretted them. "…I didn't mean that."

The hunter's face was dark. "Maybe you're right." The taller man stood to his feet as well, snatching his duffle from the floor and walking towards the doorway.

"What are you doing?" The pagan god asked, feeling a much different kind of adrenalin surge through his body now; distress and regret.

"I'm leaving. I'll sleep in the car, and we'll see what happens tomorrow," he muttered, opening the door. Before he closed it behind him, however; he paused. "Goodbye, Gabriel."

The door closed with a light click and a sense of finality.

ooo

The space was dark and endless. It had a sick feel to it, like the lonely room of a dying man in an old hospital. Sounds echoed off of the air as if they were at the bottom of a deep chasm rather than an endless void. The sounds were indiscernible; guttural moans more animalistic than human, wet screams that seemed more akin to stabbing your own ear with a knife than actual shouts, and soulless laughter that was somehow louder than the rest.

Hell was smoke and sweat, burning flesh, hopelessness, and a kind of broken promise. It was a raging torrent of fear, pain, flesh and blood. And somehow Dean had ended up smack in the middle of it.

The man sat casually nearby, his legs folded as neatly as his hands sitting on his lap. He was dressed in a dark shirt and jeans, the kind of outfit you would wear on casual Friday at work. He looked at home amidst the chaos. "So, Dean," he asked, "Since we've got a while, why don't we get to know one another?"

"How about you eat my ass?" the elder Winchester brother spat, grinding his teeth as he felt the ridiculously large meat hooks shift under his skin; pulling at his muscles and making his eyes water in agony.

"Temper tempter, we'll work on that," the man said, tapping the side of his head thoughtfully. "Besides, I have it under good word that you've been away from home for a few years. Care to talk about that?"

"Fuck you!" Dean shouted, his hands balling into fists. He relaxed them a few seconds later when he felt the blood drip down his wrists, never mind the pain.

Somehow, the man had gotten a hold of a clipboard. "It says here," he commented, pointing towards a paragraph in the middle of the top page, "That you abandoned John and Sam when you were only sixteen. Is that true?"

The Winchester was silent.

"Now, remember this," he sighed, "Silence is just as bad a lying, and lying is a sin. I won't allow either. Now, we could have such a great time down here, but if you keep doing this, you won't have any fun at all. I'll give you one last chance. Did you leave Sam when you were sixteen?" the man asked kindly.

Dean stared obstinately ahead, refusing to answer. It seemed like the right thing to do.

"Okay then," the man frowned, standing to his feet. "Let's begin."

It was only then did the eldest Winchester brother truly feel like he was in Hell.

ooo

"I realize that I never actually introduced myself," the man said later, back in his lounging position atop that damned wooden chair. "It's only fair that you know my name since I know yours."

Dean would have responded with something clever and snarky, if only he was able to speak at the moment. Instead he managed a horrible, wet noise from somewhere deep in his "body", if that's what you could call it at the moment.

"Most people call me Alastair," the man smirked, "I'm a demon; but you knew that."

The Winchester responded with another wet, sucking noise.

"Oh, I apologize," the demon frowned, waving his hand dismissively towards Dean. Instantly, his skin was unmarred and whole. He breathed a deep, heavy breath of relief. "I wouldn't get used to that, Dean. We'll begin again shortly. I've got quite a few ideas left in store for you; and I can't wait to try every single one of them. We've got so much time on our hands, so why rush?" Alastair droned on.

Dean didn't reply to that. He looked away and into the dull hellfire of the infinity around him, examining the chains that seemed to span forever into the distance until he couldn't see them anymore. It was only the clattering of the clipboard that finally regained his attention.

"I take it's true you left your family at sixteen, correct?" the man asked again; speaking as if they hadn't spent what seemed like days turning Dean's stomach over in his body as he watched. "And please answer me this time."

The very last thing the Winchester wanted to do was answer, but by god did he answer. "…Yes."

Alastair smiled. "Excellent. I think I like you, Dean."

He clenched his jaw and stared at the other man's feet.

"Moving on. Is it true that after you left, you felt guilt over abandoning your brother and father?"

"…Yes."

"Did you try to bury that guilt by throwing yourself into work and volunteering; in the hopes that you could somehow forgive yourself? Did you _honestly_ think that you were worthy of redemption?"

"Yes."

At that, the demon laughed. "That's the funniest thing I've heard in years! What did you honestly think would happen when you left? That John would just let Sam go?"

"I tried not to think about what happened to Sam," he answered weakly. Somewhere in the back of the older brother's mind, he knew that nothing good would come of leaving. But he had done it anyways; Sam would have been fine on his own, right? That's what he wanted to think, so he did.

"Of course you didn't. Who would have? Who _wants_ to contemplate how messed up their sibling would become since you weren't around to protect them?" the demon teased.

"Stop talking," Dean demanded.

Alastair wiped his eye, the chuckles dying down. "I think I'll cut you a deal," he proclaimed. "I'll let you off the rack if –and only if- you continue my work on others. As I said before, I like you."

"You want me to torture people in my place?" Dean asked, disgusted.

"Why not? They're all down here for a reason. They deserve it."

"No way in Hell! I'll never torture anyone," he hissed, decision set in stone.

"I think you're forgetting that I have an eternity to change your mind," Alastair said lazily before standing and approaching the bound Winchester once more; a malicious gleam in his gaze. "I think I'll start with your face this time."

ooo

The Impala was blanketed in an inch of gleaming snow by the time Sam made his way outside; keys in one hand and bag in the other. The wind was picking up, whipping through the trees with an eerie howl, bringing the scent of frozen pine trees and the frigid air. The hunter unlocked the door, shuffling into the backseat stiffly and tossing the duffle into the passenger's seat. Slamming the car door behind him, he slipped off his wet boots and threw those into the front as well.

This wasn't the first time the oversized Winchester had spent the night in the Impala. It was by no means comfortable, since he was about three feet too long to restfully lie down. The interior of the car was absolutely freezing as well; he was already losing feeling in his toes. There were multiple instances in the past where he had spent the night outside on warmer nights, sleeping on the hard ground under the stars.

The hunter frowned, reaching his hand under the seats and digging out a ratty blanket he had stolen from a motel years ago. It was an offensive orange color and smelled of mothballs, but it had gotten the job done before. Covering himself, he tried to relax.

The wind rocked the vehicle from side to side like a mother would do to her child in a crib. Sam didn't mind in the least, in fact, he welcomed the swaying motion. Burying himself deeper into the blanket, he closed his eyes.

Images of Gabriel flashed through his still racing mind. His expression as they had argued not five minutes before, how he had told the Winchester that was supposed to end the world, the way he had consoled him as he bared his heart… Huffing in agitation, he tried to banish those thoughts. It was late, he needed sleep and this wasn't helping.

Instead, he thought of happier times. Vaguely, he recalled afternoons in the sun tossing a football with his brother and a family friend of John's, an older man who constantly wore a ragged ball cap and always looked annoyed with something. Bobby Singer, wasn't it? He was fairly certain it was. Sam hadn't seen the old man in years, not after Dean left. John wouldn't hear of it.

There had been a time when Sam was nine and he had bribed a religious kid to marry him to a boy named Charlie in a public bathroom. Charlie cried when Sam kissed him on the cheek, and they went to get ice cream afterwards. He told John later that evening and he clapped Sam on the shoulder, muttering a sarcastic congratulation. A week later they had left, unfortunately. Charlie cried again when he had given him his last farewell and had offered the Winchester a tight, slobbery hug.

The last time he had seen Dean before his older brother had left for Sonny's. They had fought over the last slice of pizza. Eventually, Dean had relented as let Sam eat it, opting instead for a microwave dinner.

Sam felt himself drifting off to sleep when the storm finally let up and the sun peeked shyly over the horizon.


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter 28: Fate is a Jealous Bitch

ooo

"_Stay here," he said to his son, whose face was shrouded in the shadows of the trees. Without waiting for an answer, he slipped away into the forest._

_John Winchester may be human, but he certainly wasn't an idiot. He noticed the signs that someone -or something- had been following both himself and his son for a while now. When a hunter felt uneasy, it was best to listen to that feeling and get the Hell out of dodge. So he'd kept them on the move, never stopping in one place for too long._

_The only sound was the padding of his sneakers through the rotten leaves and dirt, heading away from the tunnel where he knew the wendigo would be hiding. But right now, he had bigger fish to fry. There was little doubt in his mind that Sam could handle himself on this hunt alone._

_Making a big enough loop in order to circle around his son without his noticing, he began to make his way back towards the Impala. Things were getting far too dangerous to keep Sam in the game, and he would have to make a run for it before something bad happened to either of them. With any luck, the thing that killed Mary would chase after _himself_ and not his son._

_As John walked, he began to think. If the monster that he had been so long chasing was exactly what he thought it was; there would undoubtedly be more. And if there _were_ more, what would that mean for the hunters exactly?_

_There were so many things on John's plate that he was thoroughly impressed with himself that he'd managed to keep a lid on it for so long. Sighing heavily, the oldest Winchester rubbed his unshaven jaw with the palm of his hand, frowning to himself. Hopefully nothing would explode in his face._

_After spending years hunting, John had made a few surprising discoveries, a couple hitting too close to home for comfort. The hunter had tortured a vampire in Michigan once with the intent of finding out where its nest was. Instead, he gained something else entirely._

"_I can smell it on him," it had hissed through jagged, bloody teeth. "We can all smell it a mile away, as long as you know what you're looking for."_

"_That's not what I asked," John had growled, working the blade of his knife deeper into the flesh of its body. It screamed, thrashing in the chair like an animal possessed. "Where is your nest?"_

"_He'll damn us all! He's damned himself!"_

"_What the Hell are you talking about?" the hunter asked, closing the gap between human and monster. The vampire turned its head, glaring hard at the dirty aluminum wall, its expression wrathful._

"_The Boy King," it grinned, mouth full of teeth. "It's a freak of nature. I wouldn't even touch him myself."_

"_Who's the 'Boy King'?"_

_Obstinately, the creature remained silent._

"_Answer me!" John demanded, removing the blade with a thick, squelching sound. He dug it into its wrist, pinning the arm down onto the wooden chair. She shrieked; face morphing into a mess of thick, dark veins and anger._

"_They speak of him in the night when they think nobody is listening."_

"_They?"_

"_I don't know what they are, but they're evil," the vampire cried out as the hunter twisted the knife, mangling her arm further. "They talk of the end of the world; the apocalypse!"_

"_That's impossible," John scoffed. "I should have just killed you earlier; it would have spared me this bullshit monolog. I'll give you one last chance; where's the nest?"_

"_Kill me then," the creature sighed, slumping in her chair. "But remember that nobody can save your son. He will destroy everything, and _nothing_ will stop him."_

"_Sam? What about him?"_

"_Oh, is that his name?" the vampire asked coyly._

"_Don't think that I won't kill you," the hunter threatened. "But what does my son have to do with the end of the world?"_

"_They said that he will bring about the end of days, and will play a major part in the death of the human race. Which_ I_ for one am looking forward to."_

Smack!_ John backhanded the gaunt woman with his hand. "Shut up, and remember that I'm in charge here. You're not allowed to say whatever you want."_

"_And what are you going to do about it? You can't stop me; you still don't know where my nest is."_

"_Then I'll find it on my own," the Winchester hissed, swinging the blade. With brute force, he lobbed off the vampire's head. It tumbled to the floor with a soft thump and a quiet spurt of dark red liquid. John kicked it into the shadows of the building._

_Suffice to say that bit of information had been unexpected. Sam, the bringer of the end of times? At that point, the youngest Winchester had only been fourteen and had been the epitome of kindness. In fact, the day before, he'd refused to let John kill a fly that had been annoying them both for an hour or so. Instead Sam had spent ten minutes chasing the poor creature around the room, clasping it in his hands, and letting it go out the front door. John just couldn't see it._

_But that didn't mean he wouldn't do a little digging. There was no harm in covering all his bases, right? If the vampire had been wrong, Sam would have nothing to worry about._

_About a month later, the remaining Winchester family stumbled upon what looked to be a Witch hunt. Eager to gain more information, he'd sought out the creatures. Witches tended to get around, so it was the perfect place to start his investigation._

_It was a small town out in the middle of nowhere. The largest business there was was the local post office. Finding his targets was going to be easy. However, convincing them to help was a completely different matter. John set up the Impala behind a dilapidated building and set out. Sam watched him leave through one of the Impala's backseat windows._

_John tracked the small coven simply using a discarded newspaper on the ground telling of three local women who won the lottery four times in a row. Luckily there had been no deaths recently in the area, meaning the witches hadn't killed anybody… yet._

_With a handgun at his waist and a spare in the hem of his jeans, he had started towards the address of the witches. Luckily for him, it was only a few blocks away. The only issue left was how to _go about _the problem. As he neared the house, he figured that perhaps the direct approach was best. Guns blazing, the hunter burst through the front door, whipping out the handgun from his back pocket. "Nobody move!" he shouted, aiming the barrel at the first person he saw._

"_It's a hunter! Kristi, you said that they wouldn't come after us if we didn't do anything bad!" one of the women in the room had cried out, jumping to her feet. The other two were too shocked to do much else than stare at the unknown man from their positions on the floral couch._

"_Yeah, well, Kristi lied," John said coolly. "You should have thought about that _before _you decided to take up witchcraft."_

_The women threw one another terrified glances but stayed quiet. "Listen, nobody will get hurt if they cooperate," John continued, quickly taking power of the situation._

_The tallest of the women took a tentative step forward. "What do you want? We have hurt no one. Why are you here?"_

"_I need information, and I think you all can help me," the hunter demanded._

_There was a quiet murmuring from the two other witches, and the one who had been speaking nodded slightly. "Whatever it takes, just please don't hurt us. We would never harm anyone, I swear."_

"_I won't hurt any of you," John lied. "I promise."_

_ooo_

_The eldest Winchester watched as the three women set up strange symbols in the center of the cool basement. The windows were covered with iron bars, and the door to the first floor had been locked securely. The entire room was circled in salt, and a strange pentagram had been painted into the middle of the floor. John waited curiously as the witches chanted in what seemed to be Latin._

_When they finished, the tallest of the three turned to him once more. "Now we wait."_

"_Wait for what, exactly?"_

_She looked uncomfortable now. "Uh, you'll see. Just… stay out of the circle and this will go smoothly."_

_Frowning, John took a step backwards as a precaution. Then, he waited._

_The silence was deafening. They all stood without movement for what seemed like hours. Gradually, the Winchester felt more and more like he was being conned. Shifting impatiently, he folded his arms tightly, trying to keep his temper._

_It was only the startled squeak from one of the witches that finally caught his attention._

_There, in the center of the room, stood a short man with ridiculously blonde hair and a shit-eating grin. "What?" he exclaimed when he noticed everybody in the room had been staring at him. "I'm a busy guy, you can't expect me to come at the drop of a- oh! Who are you?" he addressed the hunter, looking far too comfortable with the situation for John's tastes. "Wait, let me guess… Old, dirty clothes, dark bags under the eyes… Is that a gun in your pants, or are you just happy to see me? No? Well then… You must be a hunter!"_

_John didn't deign to answer._

"_Yeah, I have a tendency to make people speechless when I enter the room," the man quipped, picking something from under his nail. "Alright, let's get down to business. What's your purpose in summoning me?"_

"_I need information," the Winchester began, unfolding his arms._

"_Specific," the man frowned, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "I'm guessing you don't want just any old pie recipe do you?"_

"_No, I don't."_

"_Damn, because _I _wanted one. Care to trade recipe for recipe? I know how to make a mean casserole."_

"_No thanks," John commented awkwardly. "I'm looking for somewhat more sensitive information. They," he said, gesturing to the now-cowering women, "Told me you'd be of help."_

"_Did they now? Well, I'll deal with them later. But for now, what do you want, little angry man?"_

_Frowning at the nickname but otherwise ignoring it, he began explaining himself -with caution, of course. "I've come across a boy with certain rumors floating around him, and I want to know if any of them are true."_

"_Hmm, you've caught my attention. Although; I can't possibly know who exactly you're talking about. Care to be more specific? A name, for instance?"_

_Reluctantly, John told him. "Sam."_

"_Sam, as in Sam Winchester?"_

"_Yes."_

"_Well, I'll be damned- again! That boy finally surfaced after all these years. That kid's a firecracker, lemme tell you."_

"_What do you mean?"_

_The man raised a finger. "Ah ah ah! No can do, that kind of information could be _catastrophic_ if it got into the wrong hands. I can't just go spilling to any old hunter I'm indirectly summoned by. I _can_ however, tell you a little more if we make a fair trade."_

"_A trade? And what kind of trade would that be?"_

"_Nothing _too_ important. I'd just need a few months on the inside ten or so years from now."_

_John furrowed his eyebrows, considering the other man carefully. He hadn't moved from where he had first appeared, opting instead to only stand motionless in the very center of the pentagram the witches had drawn earlier. He'd heard of symbols like the one in front of him before, and they were typically used to catch demons. But, it couldn't be true, could it?_

"_I don't think it's a good idea to make a deal with a demon," John commented slyly._

"_It's not a good idea to _summon_ them either," the man jibed with a wide grin plastered on his angular face. "But hunters typically don't listen to what their mommies tell them, now do they?"_

"_What do you mean by 'time on the inside'?" the Winchester asked instead, hoping to change the tide of the conversation in his favor._

"_I'm not planning on taking your soul; actually, it looks like it's already near-damned anyways. It would be a waste of my time."_

_If that particular bit of information shocked the hunter in any way, he didn't show it._

_The demon sighed in exasperation. "I'd just need to… borrow you for a few months in the future. It doesn't hurt; in fact, I could make you forget anything we did together if you wanted. But I feel like this could be a real learning experience for you! Think of it as shadowing for a future job position."_

"_I don't think so," John refuted._

"_Listen; honey," the demon sighed, ignoring the hunter's noise of protest, "I can't make a one-sided deal here. Information has a cost this day and age, and I'm offering you a great handshake here. Facts for a short joyride ten years from now? There's no way in Hell you'd get another offer as good as mine again. So I'll ask one last time, be my butt buddy; or goodbye? Which is it?"_

"…_Why do you need me specifically?" the eldest Winchester asked, his face plastered with a grimace._

_The man flashed his teeth at John. "Smart one, aren't you? I think we'll get along. I'd love to tell you, but y'see; you've got a certain backstage pass that I need. You know specific people, and have a particular sway that I'm interested in."_

"_If you didn't want to tell me, you could have just said," the Winchester growled, growing impatient._

_The man shrugged, not looking interested._

_There was a moment of quiet as John considered his options. If he agreed to the demon's deal, he'd get his information, plus ten years to find a way out of the agreement. If he just walked away, he would be back to square one._

"_Fine, I'll do it."_

"_Excellent! Now come here and give me a big ol' _smooch_!" the ridiculously blonde creature exclaimed, clapping his hands together craftily._

"_What? No!" John flinched, taking an involuntary step in the opposite direction._

"_In order to make a deal, we need to _seal_ the contract, so to speak. I mean this quite literally," the man explained with an air of authority. "Sorry," he tacked on, not looking apologetic in the least._

_For the first time in a while, the hunter felt unsure of himself. Taking a quick glance at the witches; who luckily were still huddled in a corner, averting both his and the demon's eyes, John approached the pentagram._

_The words of the women rang in his ears from earlier. "Stay out of the circle and this will go smoothly."_

_Having the distinct feeling that he was going to regret this, John took a step across the painted line and joined the spawn of Hell in his trap. The demon grinned, beckoning John to take yet another step forward,_

"_Pucker up," the man chuckled, grabbing a fistful of John's jacket and pulling the hunter forwards. Within the second, John was kissing him. That moment solidified both his hatred for the creature and even for himself._

_It lasted only a split second longer. John practically fell backwards -a feat that he would forever deny to himself actually happened- and tripped back out of the pentagram._

"_Hmm," the blonde man appraised, "Not bad. Anyways, the deal has been sealed; so no more effort on your part. What do you want to know?"_

"_Uh," the hunter stammered, clambering to his feet, "Why do you care so much about Sam Winchester?"_

"_He's of certain interest to my resident lord and master."_

"_Satan?" the Winchester exclaimed._

"_His name is Lucifer, not Satan. Show him some respect."_

"_Show _Satan_ respect? No, I don't think so. Why does he care about him?" John pressed._

"_Your loss," the demon sighed. "He cares because Sam's going to be very important one day."_

"_Why? Stop evading my questions, we had a deal."_

"_I can't tell you everything you want to know, I don't know everything."_

"_So what _can_ you tell me?"_

"_That kid's going to play a pretty big part in the end of days, or the apocalypse as most people know it. There's nothing you can do to stop it either, it's fate. Mess with it and you're likely to end up with a big steaming pile of bad karma on your plate one day."_

"_So what's he 'fated' to do?" the hunter insisted, ignoring the previous comment._

"_Rumor has it that he's gonna free Lucifer from Hell, but personally I don't think he has the guts for it. The kid's weak."_

"_He's going to do _what_?"_

"_Free my master," the man grunted, waving a hand dismissively, "Destroy the world, all of that good stuff. Oh, on top of that, there's an underground demon cult that practically worships him. They call him 'The Boy King'. While I respect Sam, there's _no_ way I'd _worship_ him."_

"_The Boy King? I've heard that title before," the Winchester said, mostly to himself._

"_I wouldn't be surprised."_

"_Why him, though? Why Sam?"_

"_There are a lot of factors that go into this, you know. The Winchester family descends from Cain and Abel I've heard. Not to mention that little bit about the blood."_

"_Blood?"_

"_Sam's got demon blood running through his veins. He'll go dark side one day, mark my words. Now, if you'll excuse me John, I need to be somewhere." Suddenly the blonde man was gone. That's when the hunter noticed two things. One, when he had tripped, he'd scuffed the paint, breaking the circle. Two; he'd never told the man his name._

Sam woke up to Gabriel lightly rapping on the car window.


	29. Chapter 29

Chapter 29: Let's Talk About Our Feelings

ooo

"Kiddo, are you okay?" Gabriel asked, obviously concerned. "You look like you wetted yourself," he continued, slightly nervous.

Sam couldn't find it in himself to answer; he was still trying to catch his breath. It felt like an elephant had sat on him all night, pressing him against the hard leather seats of the Impala. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a night this bad.

"…Can you at least unlock the doors? I'm freezing my balls off out here."

Nodding fervently, the hunter scrambled to find the keys. Finding them buried still deep within his rumpled jacket pocket, he unlocked the Impala with a muted _click_.

The cold air and snow rushed in as the former bartender swung himself inside, sitting next to Sam before slamming the door shut behind him. "What happened? It's practically the middle of the day, and I got worried, so I came out to find you. I can't believe you slept in here; it's more suited for a penguin then it is for a human!"

"I- I had a dream," the hunter managed.

"A dream? What of?" Gabe asked cautiously.

"It was of John, my dad. He knew, he _knew_!" Sam exclaimed, suddenly finding himself wrapped in Gabriel's arms.

"It's okay, Sammy. Just talk to me about it," his friend spoke softly.

"Everything you said was true. You told me that I was meant to release _Satan_ from _Hell_ one day. I believe you now. Even my own father knew; he made a _deal_ with a _demon_ to find out. I'll bet that's why he vanished during the wendigo hunt. It possessed him!"

"Why would it want to possess John of all people?" Gabe asked.

"I don't know," Sam replied. "But I'm sure nothing good will come of it," he paused for a moment, breathing heavily. "Gabriel, even the demons know about the blood. Some of them call me the Boy King. They _worship_ me."

The Archangel flinched ever so slightly at that phrase. It was a title that had been chasing the Winchester around for a while; an underground cult of demonic scum that decided, since Sam was the vessel of Lucifer that the hunter would become their de facto lord and master. Of course, Gabriel had done his best to protect the man from this sort of thing. But perhaps it had been too big of an undertaking to ever truly keep a lid on it. It was, after all, the apocalypse they were dealing with here.

"I'm sorry I walked out on you yesterday," Sam was saying, "I know you were just looking out for me."

"Hey there," the trickster exclaimed lightly, "No need for apologizing. If anyone should be sorry here, it's me. I kept all of this from you in order to protect you; but it obviously didn't work. You had a right to know. And besides, what I said to you was a dick move, and I can't tell you how sorry I am for that."

"I forgive you," the hunter murmured. "But I have to ask, why me? Why was _I _chosen to… "he swallowed, "release Lucifer from Hell?"

"Oh Sammy, I wish it hadn't been you. You don't deserve this, not at all. But nobody cares about the person in these things. It's bloodlines that everyone cares about. And unfortunately, yours just happen to be the prime ribs of the entire animal," Gabriel told him solemnly.

"What do you mean?"

"Rumor has it that you and your brother are descendants of Cain and Abel."

"Dean's part of this too?" the Winchester asked, upset and shocked.

Gabriel nodded his head in affirmation.

"What does he… have to do? Since I'm destined to, well… you know. What part does he have in all of this?"

"You probably don't want to know, kiddo."

Sam considered his friend. "I think I do."

"Then I'll tell you, but not today. You're upset, and I really don't have it in me to hurt you again," the former bartender said staunchly.

Sam huffed, his breath making a puff of steam in the cold, dry air. Outside the sun was nearing its peak in the sky, making the snow around them blinding to look at. Gusts of wind brushed powder along the frozen earth, swirling above the dark asphalt of the parking lot. The two men were quiet, each lost in their own thoughts. Eventually, Sam shifted into a sitting position; his side pressed hard into Gabriel's. The Winchester could feel heat radiating from his friend's body, sort of like his own personal space heater.

"So what now?" Gabe asked after a moment.

"...I guess we've got work to do."

ooo

"Why don't you tell me a little about your life, Dean? I will admit that I don't have all the details, just the big picture," Alastair was saying one day over the sharp, metallic sounds echoing from somewhere in the distance. The elder Winchester spat out a mouthful of blood and his back molars, glaring half-heartedly at the demon.

"I'd rather eat a bullet," he growled, his throat making a painful gurgling noise as he forced the words past his lips.

"Won't you ever get tired of fighting me?" the man sighed dramatically. "Besides, it's only common courtesy answering."

"No, I won't."

"Let me give you an idea of what situation you're in, since you still seem to forget. I am the one in charge. Fight me, and you'll find that I can be creative. Submit, and I might let you feel your toes at the end of our sessions."

"Fuck you."

"I'm tired of giving you chances, Winchester. I'll ask you a question, and you'll answer; right? Otherwise, you'll be forcing me to adopt more… extreme methods. You may remember what happened to that man yesterday, correct? I'm not above it, Dean. While I love to have my fun with you, remember, I have a job, a responsibility. I'll turn you over to her. She'd _kill_ to have a turn here."

Dean remembered. Alastair had been in the middle of a torture session when they had heard it. At first, Dean was sure that the noise had come from some creature, deep in the bowels of Hell, so horrible that no one had the imagination to dream it up on Earth. But it was too close, too pain-stricken, that it had to be coming from a human.

"Looks like Lilith's having her fun," the demon commented evenly before continuing.

Alistair snapped his fingers, regaining the Winchester's attention. "I asked, what happened after John and Sam left? What did you do?"

He glared hard at the monster. "I helped Sonny around the farm, repairing things that needed fixed, clearing out areas that he hadn't touched in years; the usual farm business."

"Go on."

The Winchester looked away, off into the reddish-grey fog of Hell, wrinkling his nose as another wave of burned flesh scent hit his face. "Sonny didn't have any relatives, and he was getting old. So he decided he would turn the land over to me when he passed away."

"Why would he do that?" Alastair asked, straining to find a way to turn Dean's experiences into nightmares. At this, the elder Winchester brother grinned wryly. He would take any victory he could get. "You're a traitor, you abandon people you love. You can't be trusted."

"He decided that after I built a chicken coop from my own pocket change. It took me weeks, but I finally put it together and gave it to him as a birthday gift. I'm no traitor."

Alastair raised his eyebrows and said nothing.

"I was walking home one day from my work. It wasn't too far from the farm, and it had been the middle of summer. There was a policeman in the driveway. Sonny had died earlier that day in a car crash. The lawyer came by a week later. Sonny had passed the farm onto me."

"It seems like everyone you love leaves you; or you leave them," the demon said. Dean chuckled. It was obvious his torturer was grasping at straws now. "Enough talking now. I have work to do."

ooo

"Hey, kiddo?" Gabriel asked as Sam finished packing the Impala with their bags.

"Yeah?"

"Listen, what happened yesterday… Not that part. Before," the bartender tacked on, noticing Sam's expression change.

The hunter hummed, looking more curious and nervous now.

"What if… I take you on a date…?" he finished, shifting from foot to foot nervously. "We still don't have a good lead on John, and it wouldn't hurt to explore _whatever this is_ in the meantime…"

"A date?" Sam repeated, butterflies erupting in his stomach. _Flaming _butterflies with spikes and machine guns.

"Yeah. I mean, you don't have to if you don't want to. Actually, why did I bring this up?" the former bartender babbled, turning away from the taller man. "Neverm-"

"Shut up Gabriel!" Sam huffed, pulling his friend towards him by the wrist. "Of course I'll go on a date with you, even if you are too young for me; being a dramatic teenage girl and all."

"...I hate you, you big lug."

Sam smiled, laughing. Despite everything they had been through, it didn't matter. They had done it together, and hopefully they would _continue _to do it as a pair.

"We'd better head out," Sam said after a second. "John's getting farther and farther away, and we aren't making any headway."

"We still don't have a lead. He could be anywhere on the continent at this point," the former bartender pointed out.

Sam thought for a moment. It was doubtful that anyone who lived in the town knew anything about John's whereabouts. But Lance seemed to be a wealth of information. Maybe he knew something? He frowned. Lance was a man he'd rather avoid. They had too much history, and history wasn't something a hunter wanted.

But did they really have a choice?

"I'll be back, meet me here in half an hour," the hunter announced to his friend, starting towards the motel.

"Why? Where are you going?" Gabriel asked as he jogged to keep up with the Winchester.

"Just wait for me here, okay? Please?" Sam requested, giving him a pleading look. Whatever information about him came out in this conversation between him and Lance, he didn't want Gabe to hear it. Sam's ledger wasn't exactly clean. The older hunter was bound to have dirt on him.

The bartender groaned. "Fine, but only because you said please."

"Thank you. I'll be right back."

Sam continued walking towards the building. Opening the squeaky door, he stepped inside the motel. The woman from the night before had been replaced by a scrawny man with shrewd, startlingly blue eyes.

"A man named Lance checked into your motel yesterday; is he still here?"

"Lance? Let me see," the clerk repeated, shuffling through a few papers on his desk. "Sure. Room 5."

"Thank you," Sam said, turning and heading in the appropriate direction. The flooring creaked under the Winchester's heavy footfalls. Sam passed a few rooms before finding the one he was looking for; room five.

When Sam arrived at the specified room, he found the door to be already unlocked. Without so much as knocking, the hunter pushed open the door and entered the room. Inside was a frenzy of activity. A large suitcase crammed with rumpled clothes and other odds and ends sat open and limp on the creaking bed. The heater was roaring under the window, making it sound as if there was a furious dragon sitting in the middle of the floor. Lance was throwing some items into a backpack.

Sam cleared his throat, making Lance freeze. "Sam? What are you doing here?"

"Going somewhere in a hurry?" the Winchester asked, ignoring the other man's question.

"Aren't we always?" Lance countered. "What do you want? Spit it out, I'm on a tight schedule."

Sam frowned, stepping fully inside the room and shutting the door behind him. "What do you know about John's whereabouts?"

A slow smile crept up the older hunter's face. His teeth were yellowed with age and caked with plaque. His gums were irritated and red. "So that's what this is about," he mused.

"He's my father, what do you expect me to do? Just let him go?" Sam argued.

"Yes. That's exactly what you do," the older hunter snarled, striding closer to the Winchester. "You forget about him. You move on and don't look back!" His putrid breath wafted into his face. It was sour and musty at the same time. "He's as good as dead. The sooner you accept that, the better it's gonna be."

Sam recoiled, pulling away from Lance. "You sound as if you're speaking from experience."

"Look, I can lead you to water, but it's _you _who decides to drink. Die from dehydration, I don't care. But I'll be damned if I don't try."

"What are you talking about?"

Lance dove for his backpack and reached inside of it. After a moment, he pulled out an old newspaper clipping and tossed it to the taller man. "Here, I last saw John in that town. But please, Sam _please _don't get involved. It's exactly what they want. The demons have been tailing you for a while now, and I can't figure out why. It's as if they're waiting for something."

"Thanks for the warning, but I have to save my dad," Sam commented staunchly. "He would do the same for me."

"I wouldn't be too sure of that, boy. Yeah, he'd probably track you down, but the end result would be much different. John would kill you before you could blink."

"You're right, but that still doesn't mean I can't save him."

Lance glared at him. "You won't save everybody. It's impossible."

The Winchester deflated. It was true, he knew that. But if he didn't try, then who would? With a careless shrug, Sam turned to leave.

"Wait… Sam?"

Turning back, he frowned. "What?"

"Do you ever remember meeting a woman named Delphine?"

Delphine… The woman who had first turned him onto the path of demons. She'd run a small shop in an even smaller town. She and Sam had conversed for a time, and he'd learned more in those few hours than he had in the weeks following when he'd been looking for John. So yeah, he remembered her. "I do, why?"

Lance wavered. "Ah, no reason," he mumbled, voice laden with… grief? The taller man didn't have time to ponder. He exited the room, this time not looking back.

Gabriel was still waiting for him by the Impala. "I hope you got what you were looking for," the shorter man said, rubbing his hands together for warmth.

The hunter waved the newspaper clipping at him. "I did. John was here last."

"...In Lawrence Kansas? Why there?" Gabriel asked.

Sam hadn't had the chance to look at the paper quite yet, so the news was surprising to say the least. "Lawrence? Are you sure that's what it says?"

"I _can _read, you know."

"Huh," Sam sighed, slipping into the Impala and starting the engine.

"Was that a good huh or a bad one?" the former bartender asked, confusion in his voice.

"I'm not sure," Sam admitted, "I guess we'll see when we get there."

"What's so special about this place anyways? It's almost as if you've seen a ghost. A _metaphorical_ ghost anyways."

The hunter cranked up the heater and watched the snow melt from off the roof and run onto the windshield. "I uh, was born there."

"In Lawrence? I wonder what made your dad head back, especially now."

"Good question. Once we left, John never took us back. He wouldn't even talk about it, especially after Dean left."

"Nostalgia?"

Sam harrumphed. "I doubt that. He's not exactly one for sentiment. The only reason I can think of is there's a job there. But if John is possessed by a demon, then why would he go hunting? This doesn't make any sense!"

"Maybe he's trying to lure you into a trap? You know as well as I do that Hell needs you on their side, especially with the apocalypse coming up," Gabriel commented, tapping a finger against his chin in thought.

"But why now? Why after all of these years do they come for me? What I don't get is why the demons didn't just kidnap me when I was younger; it would have been so much easier that way."

If the Archangel had been drinking water he would have spit it out. Sure, he knew exactly why Hell was gunning for the hunter now. Dean was dead. The first seal could be broken any day now, if it hadn't been already. If Azazel had taken Sam when he was younger, then the older Winchester brother may not have ever sold his soul. The first seal would never have been broken. Hell was playing this smart.

The trickster's lips drew into a frown. There was no way he'd tell Sam today that his brother was dead. Too much had happened, and he didn't want to stress the Winchester any more than he was. He'd tell him eventually… but not any time soon.

"I don't know kiddo. I just don't know."


	30. Chapter 30

Chapter 30: Manly Bar Fight

Alternatively named _Sam Beats up a Group of Assholes_

The road was slick with snow and ice as the Impala careened down the backwoods road; the surrounding pine trees reflecting on the shiny black exterior as they passed by. The air smelled of frost and snowmelt and stung your nose with cold every breath. The sun was shrouded with a thin layer of grey hanging clouds that spanned for miles.

Things in Sam's life had gone from bad to horrendous, all in the course of a single, eventful year. Twelve months ago the Winchester had been hunting with his father, his life free from the fate of the world. Now, he was to end it. Sam was sure he hadn't done anything to deserve this fate; but there wasn't much he could do about it now. The only path left for him was forward.

That wasn't all. The Winchester had also figured out that there was demon blood flowing through his veins, which wasn't a particularly good feeling. What kind of taint did that put on his soul? Did it make him earmarked for Hell? He wasn't certain anymore.

On the bright side however, Gabriel was still at his side. With him, the hunter was certain they could accomplish anything.

They had been driving for a good number of hours now. There wasn't much to do in the car except wait to get wherever they were going. Lawrence… why would John pack up and head to their hometown? What could he possibly be planning to find there?

Maybe it had something to do with the deal his father made. Maybe John was still looking for a way out of it. That could explain why he had just taken off without telling his son.

But still, Sam could have helped with the investigation; and things probably would have gone a lot quicker in finding a solution. On the other hand, it was useless wondering the _what ifs_.

The Winchester frowned at the glass of the window and watched the trees run past. What would the plan be if it turned out his father had already skipped town by the time they got there? They would be back to square one unless he and Gabe could find anything telling where he may have gone next; but the hunter doubted they would be so lucky again.

"You want to stop somewhere and eat?" Gabriel asked through the cloud of Sam's thoughts. "There's a town up ahead it looks like."

"Huh?" the Winchester squawked stupidly. "Oh, sure; why not?"

Gabriel winked and pulled the car down a nearby road. The frame of the Impala bounced and tilted over the uneven pavement, squeaking loudly as they hit a deep pothole. As they continued, the trees thinned out and revealed a small but well-kept city.

"There's a burger place over there," the shorter man pointed out. "I'd kill for a pound of cow right now."

"I don't think you'll need to stoop to murder. Let's head over," Sam quipped.

The pair parked in the small lot outside of the building. Stepping out of the vehicle and stretching, the Winchester scoped out the area. The city was secluded, surrounded by flat pine forests. It had been a long time since they had seen another town; and the hunter idly wondered who would build a place like this in the middle of nowhere.

"Let's head in, I'm starving," his friend sighed, brushing whatever candy crumbs had fallen onto his lap from eating in the car.

The interior of the shop was darker, windows tinted to give the place a rustic feel about it. A few leather-faced men were sitting by a low fire laughing and brandishing beers at one another in the display of stereotypical masculinity.

"Hello," a woman inquired cheerily from the podium next to them. "Welcome to Larry's Burgers! I'll show you to your seats. Follow me please." She led the two of them through the maze of empty tables and sparsely filled seats to a booth in the back of the restaurant. "Let me know if you need anything, I'll be back to get you both drinks in a few minutes." She said to them as they sat down.

"Thank you," the Winchester smiled. The woman smiled back.

"No problem," she said as she left.

Gabriel snorted into one of the menus that had already been set on the table. "She wants you."

The hunter choked on his own breath. "What?"

Gabe smiled unconvincingly and fluttered his eyebrows, badly imitated what he thought he had seen the waitress do. In a breathy voice, he said "No _problem_."

"She didn't do anything like that, you're exaggerating," the Winchester frowned; trying to cover up a laugh that had bubbled to the surface.

His friend leaned over and lightly touched Sam's arm. "Want to get out of here, hot stuff?" he whispered in a faux-feminine voice.

Sam couldn't help but smile when Gabriel's voice broke on the word _hot_. "What, are you jealous?" he joked, elbowing the shorter man in the ribs.

"Absolutely not," the other man retorted, his voice going up an octave.

Oh, Gabriel was _so _jealous.

"Hey _fags_!"

Both heads snapped towards the voice.

"That's just sickening. Get out of here and go screw where nobody has to see you!" The voice said again.

It belonged to one of the men sitting by the fireplace. He was standing, pointing the head of a glass beer bottle accusingly towards where the two of them sat. Sam felt his mouth had fallen slightly agape, and he closed it with an audible _snap_.

"Excuse me?" Gabriel spat, getting to his feet.

Sam put a hand on his leg. The last thing they needed was a bar fight. Silently he tried to convey this feeling to his friend.

"You heard me. Nobody wants to see your disgusting love making in public. Go shove a baseball bat up your ass and get the hell out of here. There are perfectly good people here and you're just fucking everything up." The man spat, his friends laughing raucously in the background.

This time it was the hunter who stood up. "Let me handle this," he told the specialist. "Relax."

The Winchester watched as Gabe sat back down, his fists clenched into fists so tight that he was surprised his friend didn't break the fingers. Sam stepped out from behind the booth and approached the men.

Up close, they were larger than Sam had expected. Two of the bikers were taller than he was, and Sam was by no means short. Each was so well-muscled that it looked like they lifted elephants for a living.

"What do you want, you fag?" the man snarled through his beard.

"Leave us alone," the hunter reasoned. "We're just here to eat, and then we're back on the road."

"Get out of here _now_. There's no place for you here. Don't make us force you to leave," another man spoke up from his spot on the couch.

The Winchester sighed. "No. Leave us alone, this is the last time I'll ask."

"This is the last time _I'll _ask." The first biker spoke up. "Get the fuck out or you're going to be sorry."

This guy absolutely pissed Sam off, and his threats just made him feel more obstinate. "No. Go screw yourself."

The guy got to his feet, smirking in the direction of his gang. "I'll teach you to mouth off to me. You're not a real man; in fact, I doubt you're even _human_!"

A fist landed square under the biker's jaw, and his head was thrown backwards at a painful angle. Sam watched with satisfaction as he staggered backwards, nearly falling into the fireplace.

"He punched Chris!" One of the other men shouted, leaping to his feet. "You're going to regret that, buddy!"

This guy was even bigger than the first. He looked to be about six and a half feet. His shirt did jack squat to cover his arm muscles. A stout, greasy handlebar mustache grew from his lip. The giant cracked his knuckles and approached the hunter. Well, this was certainly going to be interesting.

A fist shot towards Sam, giving his barely enough time to dodge. He managed to twist himself out of the way, the displaced air the arm caused whirling past his face. The Winchester parried the next hit. He aimed his own jab, nicking someone in the chin and causing them to stumble backwards. Another hit and one more body fell away from the hunter. The Winchester grit his teeth as he felt years of experience welling up behind him.

"Get up here and help us get this bastard!" a voice shouted in anger. "Who _is_ he anyways?"

Sam clenched his jaw and caught a fist that would have landed in his stomach. With an iron grip, he twisted the arm and brought the man to his knees. Someone kicked out his les, and the Winchester fell to one side. Savagely, an elbow was brought to the side of his head, and the world began to spin. _Shit shit shit._

Huffing in pain, the hunter grabbed a handful of shirt and rolled the guy under him, and then scrambled to his feet less gracefully than he would have liked. With a wild sweep, he clouted someone's temple. "God damn, who the hell are you?" jumbled the biker, his face already turning an ugly shade of purple. "_What_ the hell are you?"

"I told you not to mess with me," Sam growled. He felt out of control; another man fell to his wrath, curling up on the floor like a child in pain. A body hit one of the walls with a surprising amount of force. Something grabbed his shoulder, trying to force him in another direction.

He spun around towards the attacker, fist raised in the air; ready to attack. "Sam, stop; they've had enough!" the man insisted, still clinging to his arm. It was Gabriel. Immediately he lowered his hand, feeling a cold shiver run down his spine. He had almost hurt his best friend.

"They're gone kiddo."

Sam looked around. He was right; only a few stragglers were still present; laying on the ground or couches, bent up in apparent pain. The restaurant goers were silent, staring at the pair with unfathomable expressions. Their waitress stood behind a doorway, her attention turned towards the scene.

"I'm sorry," the hunter said uselessly, his arms falling limp to his sides.

"Are you kidding?" Gabriel exclaimed. "That was the most badass thing I've ever seen in my entire life!" The specialist clasped Sam's shoulder. "They didn't stand a chance against you."

The waitress stepped out from under the doorway and towards the two men. "Uh, excuse me?"

They turned towards her. Sam was apprehensive. If she was going to call the police, they would need to get out of there. Fast. She had had a good look at their faces, and that would make it easier for the law to identify them. Sure, this wouldn't be the first time he'd have to run from the authorities; but it was annoying as all hell.

"…Yeah?" he asked, sounding unsure even to his own ears.

There was a moment of silence; pregnant with unspoken tension. Then came the explosion of "Thank you!"

"What?" Sam asked, startled.

"They've been bothering us, the biker gang, for months now; but we couldn't get rid of them. They would ride into town and demand things, but nobody was able to stop them. The police had tried, but one day they just stopped. I don't know if it was blackmail, or bribery, or something else but you've done this town a great service. Thank you!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands together excitedly.

"Uh, you're welcome," Sam responded. "I think my friend and I had better leave. We have a lot of travelling to do."

"You're leaving so soon?" the waitress asked, her mouth drawing into a tight line.

"Yeah," Gabe cut in, "It would be best for all of us."

The woman sighed, looking unhappy. "I'd better get your food to go then. It's on the house. My treat," she smiled a little sadly.

The pair watched her sway into the kitchen to get their meals to go. Sam looked from the door to his friend. "Are you okay?" he asked the specialist.

"Am _I _okay? Why would you be asking me that? Have you taken a good look at yourself yet?" the shorter man frowned, gesturing to the multiple bruises and cuts that freshly adorned Sam's skin.

"It's nothing," the hunter said, brushing off his friend's concern. "No broken bones, no internal bleeding; nothing serious."

"You're impossible."

Sam gave him a light smile. Just then the waitress returned; two paper bags in hand. "It might be a little on the cool side; but still completely edible. I threw in an extra container of fries in case you're still hungry," she told them.

The Winchester wouldn't have cared if it was stone cold and was covered in frost and snow. It smelled delicious. She handed him the bags. They still felt warm to him. His stomach grumbled lowly.

"Thanks again," she said, putting a small hand on his arm. "You know; if you don't want to leave right now; you're welcome to spend a few hours at my place. This shift ends in a half an hour, if you two want to stick around…"

Gabe chuckled, discreetly elbowing Sam in the small of his back. _See?_ He was saying. _I told you so. Was I right or was I right?_

"I don't think we can," the hunter explained, "We're actually looking for someone, and if we take too much time he may not still be where we think he is when we actually get there."

"Where are you heading?"

"Kansas."

"If you take Princeman Street west, you'll get there faster than on the highway," the woman said, "Don't take any turns and just keep heading west. Eventually you'll get there. There you have it, advice from a local."

"Thanks," Gabe grinned, "We'll keep that in mind."

"We'd better go now," Sam spoke up, "thank you; honestly."

"It's a small repayment for what you did today."

Really, there wasn't anything more to be said. The hunter and the specialist turned and exited through the front door of the building. The wind outside was cool and refreshing, and it smelled sweetly of foliage.

"Ready to head out?" Sam asked, heading towards the driver's seat of the Impala, unlocking the black car as he went.

"Hey, wait. Are you sure you're fine?" the shorter man inquired, looking more concerned than Sam thought was necessary.

"Yeah, I told you that I was. What's wrong?"

"It's just, when you were fighting those guys; you looked a bit… too scary."

"Too scary? What's that supposed to mean?"

The specialist looked uncomfortable now. "Well," he began, "You looked almost like you… liked it?" he managed to say. "It was your face, you had an odd expression; you didn't even look like that the whole time." Words flowed faster from Gabe faster than a flooded river "I only caught a glimpse, towards the end."

Sam was quiet. Was it true? The whole fight had been kind of a blur, but it _had _felt different. He had moved through the motions like he always had, but more out of control; more savage. He brought a hand up to his head to cure a non-existent headache. What was happening to him?

Gabriel watched the man before him, feeling the compelling need to reach out and comfort him. He wouldn't though, as much as he wanted to. The archangel needed information, and unfortunately letting Sam live through his worst nightmares was the only way to get it. Gabriel needed to know just how far along the hunter was progressing. The loss of control was a mile marker; and it looked like Sam had just hit it.

Things were moving faster than he'd expected when it came to the apocalypse. At the very least he'd expected to have a few more years of preparation. The archangel frowned at the dirt. Fighting the fate of the world was hard.

Oh brother.

He had no idea what John was planning, especially heading back to ground zero. Was Hell planning their next move? Was it a trap? Was _Heaven_ planning their next move? Maybe papa Winchester was just feeling a little sentimental? He had no clue; and it was frustrating him to no end.

He was worried. He was worried about Sam, he was worried about Earth, and he was worried about his brothers. Gabriel was feeling stressed. He almost wished he had never decided to take up this stupid campaign in the first place.

"Gabe, are you ready to leave?"

"What? Oh, yeah. Let's head out," he said, climbing into the passenger's seat, closing the door behind him.

"I'm fine by the way," the Winchester informed him as he sat down to his left. "I feel great, and that fight was just another fight. Nothing unusual."

The trickster looked at his friend. It seemed as if the hunter actually believed that; he wasn't lying. There was nothing wrong with that, per se. In fact, the less stressed Sam felt was a weight off of his own back. Let himself worry about all the details! As long as the hunter was safe, Gabriel was fine.

"Good, you can always talk to me remember. We're in this together, right?" the shorter man asked.

"Right," the hunter agreed, turning the car keys and starting the engine. It roared to life, startling a nearby flock of birds into the sky. The black, vintage Impala turned from out of the parking lot and onto Princeman Street, west into the setting sun.


	31. Chapter 31

Chapter 31: Every Road has an End

ooo

It had been many years since Sam Winchester had set eyes on his hometown. The wind-beaten sign that announced their arrival into Lawrence was surrounded by tall grass and wildflowers, but was still obviously cared for. The sky wore a thick layer of grey clouds, and the sun was nowhere to be seen. A slight chill hung in the air, not enough for a jacket but enough to send shivers down one's spine. Mist hung over the rolling plains around them. All in all, it was not the prime climate for such an important reunion.

The slick, black impala rolled into the small town, sounding its usual comforting roar. As they took in the sights, the hunter was surprised at how nostalgic he was feeling. For someone who couldn't consciously remember his first year or so of life, he felt like he was finally coming home.

The buildings were simple, as was the western style. There were very few people roaming the streets, and those that were out and about found themselves taking shelter in the shops and stores. Sam sighed and parked in an empty lot outside what looked to be a small dollar store.

"Where do you want to start looking?" Gabe asked. "With luck John should be around here somewhere."

He thought for a minute. What would his father be doing here in the first place? There was nothing left for him… or was there? The Winchesters had once set down roots in this little town. Maybe it was time to go back to the start?

"There may be something left in our old house," the Winchester commented. It was a good a place as any to begin their investigation.

"Do you remember where it is?" the specialist asked, his eyebrow arching in question.

Sam nodded. "John had a few pictures of the house in his wallet with all of us posing in front of it…." The four of them stood in front of a blue house, Mary, holding the newborn Sam, and Dean perched atop his father's shoulders with a smile so big it was almost blinding. Mary and John were laughing in unison as if they had been told a funny joke. Now look at what was left of their ragged family.

"Let's head out then, kiddo."

The engine revved below them, and they were off. The hunter wasn't sure exactly where he was going, but the town was small and they were determined. Eventually the two found themselves in a cutesy neighborhood off the beaten trail, with manicured lawns and trees that had just begun to revive their leaves for the coming spring. On the end of a road they found it, a blue house that was obviously newer than the rest.

The city had apparently thought it was a good idea to rebuild the house exactly like the original, to Sam's joy. However, it wasn't all pleasant news. There was a Buick in the driveway and a mess of toys in the backyard. Someone had moved in.

"Shit," the hunter frowned. How were they going to investigate anything with a family hovering over their shoulders? "_Shit_," he said louder, punching the steering wheel. For them to come so close, but still miss? "_Shit_!"

"Sam, slow down," his friend insisted. "There's still something we can do, I'm positive. Let's sleep on it, it's getting late anyways."

The hunter didn't reply. He simply put the car into drive and pulled off the side of the road.

ooo

The time had moved slowly, so slowly, _so slowly_. Everything mulled together, everything was pain and smoke and a darkened greyness as far as he could see. And the screams, and the _screams_. They were hoarse, they were raw and long and never ended. Hell, Hell, _Hell_. Time had moved so slowly as the years passed by, so slowly, _so slowly_.

Alistair, he asked Dean at the end of every day, he kept asking him. Off the rack, off the rack and he wouldn't be on it anymore. If he agreed he would have to torture other souls in his place, if he agreed.

His hands shook, his hands shook and that was the worst part. They wouldn't stop fucking _shaking_, shaking _so much_. It was constant, it was incessant, and the older Winchester couldn't think, he just _couldn't_. The screams he could ignore, he was screaming with them sometimes. The pain he couldn't ignore, but it was routine, routine now every day. Years and years and years and years and years.

Alistair asked again, wiping his hands on a white towel; face as blank –fucking blank- as always. "Dean, you don't have to do this anymore. I want to help you. I like you more than the rest of them. I'll take you down off the rack if you wish me to; and all you have to do is say yes. Let me help you, _please_," he told the Winchester evenly, a fire burning behind his eyes and his voice ringing with sincerity; _dripping_ with it in fact.

Years and years and years and years and years, his hands were still shaking above him. The scent of wet meat and blood filled his nostrils, and the salt of his own accidental tears burning the rubbed-raw skin where it touched, everywhere it touched, _everywhere_. He wanted to go, he wanted to; but that annoying voice in his lizard brain told him it was wrong, it was wrong, it was wrong, it was _wrong_. But the years and years and years of screaming had drowned it out.

Alistair had noticed Dean's change in demeanor, and he hovered nearby longer than usual, still wiping the dry crust from under his finger nails. The hunter stayed quiet and still, except for the sporadic twitch of exposed muscle or a dull cringe as another shriek broadcasted anew.

"_Please,_ let me help you," the demon chided lovingly, stepping closer to the man and bending down on one knee as to get a better look into his face. Something about him made the Winchester feel as if he was a dog being coaxed into fetching something for its master.

"Y-y… yes," croaked the hunter, his throat bulging as it forced the words from his lips.

With that simple word, Dean was free; but the fate of the Earth was sealed. The former hunter, for all of his morals and sheer goodness, was simply glad that he wasn't on the rack anymore.

ooo

They found a hotel in the next town over, as Lawrence wasn't quite large enough to even have a motel. Sam paced the room, a stony feeling settling in his gut. They were losing time, they weren't going to have another chance or lead like this one for a long time, if ever. Gabriel was sitting in a wooden chair, perched in the corner of the hotel room. He looked thoughtful, and he didn't take his eyes off of the restless Winchester.

After a good fifteen minutes of wearing a hole into the carpet, the taller man huffed and snatched the Impala's keys off of the nightstand. "I'm going out to find a bar," he said in a tone that suggested he was going alone. It's not that Sam was mad at the specialist per se, he just needed a few hours to himself.

"Grab me a candy bar on the way back," his friend mumbled, hiding a short frown behind his knees.

"Sure."

The door closed quietly behind him as Sam stalked out of the building, making his way through the organized hallways adorned with boring photos and neutral paint. The outside air was cold and crisp, just cool enough for Sam to be able to see his own breath dissipating in the air. The clouds from earlier were all but gone, and the stars were bright against the black backdrop of the night sky. The town they were currently settled in was dark, and there were few lights to see by save for the pinpricks far above him.

The hunter wrapped his jacket further around himself and started in a random direction away from the hotel.

Sam was an optimist for the most part. He tried to look at the bright side of things as much as he could. But the minute somebody was hurt on his own account was when his personal sun was covered by rainclouds. He wasn't about to let an innocent family be caught in the crossfire of his life. No way in Hell.

Then there was Dean. He had wanted to keep his older sibling out of this lifestyle, out of hunting. He could be so much more than a murderer, a murderer like his little brother. But there he was; he allowed himself to go back. Vaguely, the hunter remembered what Dean had said to him right before he had left.

"_Fine. If you need to go that bad, at least promise me you'll call every so often for a status update. I don't like not knowing if you're alive or dead. If you don't call, I'll find you and I'll drag you back here whether you like it or not. _That's_ a promise."_

He had never called. Abruptly, the Winchester halted. It had been months upon months, why hadn't he called his older brother back? Dean must be worried beyond belief!

The hunter went to dig his brick of a phone out of the deep, dark recesses of his jacket pocket when another thought stopped him. Why hadn't his older brother tried to contact _him_? If he was so concerned, wouldn't he have at least tried to make an effort to call?

The phone lit up brightly in LED lights. Hastily, the Winchester glossed through his contacts, searching. At the very bottom of the list, his brother's name was printed in tiny pixilated letters. Pressing the green button, he turned up the volume and held the device to his ear.

_Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring._

_Hey, you've reached Dean Winchester's cell phone. Sorry I couldn't answer, either I've lost the damn thing or I'm busy. You know what to do._

_Beep._

"Dean, it's me; Sam? You must be sleeping, so call me back as soon as you can." He ended the call.

For some reason, the hunter felt uneasy. He had no proof whatsoever, but something was off about the whole situation. Why hadn't the elder Winchester called? He doubted it was for lack of caring. If by tomorrow he didn't call-

"Hey Sam," a voice spoke from somewhere in the darkness behind the hunter, startling him. The Winchester spun around, his hand going for the knife in his jeans.

"Easy tiger, it's me; Ruby? You remember me, right?"

"_Ruby?_" he spluttered, taking a step in the opposite direction. His thoughts reeled back to a dim night in a bar. She was a shark in a leather jacket, and had sat down innocently next to the hunter. They talked and exchanged information. It was only by chance that Sam had spiked Gabe's beer with holy water, and Ruby had drunk from it. That was when he knew she was a demon.

"Nice to see you again," she commented.

Ruby had claimed that night in the bar that she wanted to help him find his dad, and remember what being a human was like. She wanted Sam to trust her, and he didn't back then. To be honest… the Winchester still didn't trust that bitch.

"What do you want?"

"Just as racist as the last time we met, I see," she huffed, looking openly affronted.

Sam doubted he'd be able to outrun her, and he knew he couldn't fight her. His only hope was either Gabriel would come to his rescue, or he'd be able to talk his way out of it. Both were rather unlikely. "I guess I am, you can't blame me," Sam quipped, his eyes devoid of humor.

She shrugged, stepping forward so that the hunter was able to get a better look at her features. Ram-rod straight dark hair and even darker eyelashes adorned her head. Sharp cheekbones caught the faint glow from the stars, and she wore a shockingly red dress. If she wasn't what she was, the tall man might have found her attractive.

"How's the search for daddy going?" she asked, her voice sounding with a note of convincingly genuine curiosity and empathy.

"We're close."

"Close doesn't win the game, Winchester. You've either found him or you haven't, and unless you can call him up right now and put him on the phone I'm going to assume you didn't."

The hunter was quiet, and for a moment there was only the sound of the wind.

"Look, you know why I'm here. I still want to help you, if you'll let me. I might have an idea or two that I think you might want to listen to. Just hear me out."

He frowned. What would it hurt to just give her a chance? He still didn't trust her, and had no intentions of working with her; at the very most she could help Sam generate his own game plan. "Fine."

"You won't regret it," she smiled. For a moment, the hunter had the very distinct feeling that this was only the first mistake of a million, a mountain of mistakes upon mistakes upon mistakes. As soon as the feeling came, it was gone. He knew what he was doing, and there was absolutely no way that he would ever find himself in the palms of a demon.

"I've been asking around since the last time we saw one another," she began with a flourish of her thin hands. "And I think I may know where John is."

"Is?"

"I know where he's at tonight, but I don't know if he'll be there much longer. Rumor has it he's been possessed."

_Possessed_. Yeah, the Winchester thought that was what had happened, but hearing it from her mouth just made it that much more real. _John is possessed._ "Where?"

"That's the problem. I would have gone in myself, but he's too well guarded. There are at least five more of them in there with your dad. It would be a suicide mission. That's why I'm here, tonight. I need your help."

"Five demons?" Sam gasped, his eyebrows knitting together in apprehension. He could feel the white-hot whips of adrenaline spike through his body. If she was indeed telling the truth, then they would have to work fast.

"Six, including your dad. They're holed up in the old steel mill outside of town."

"What are they doing there?" he inquired, looming over her.

"Nothing good, I'm sure. There have been whispers, whispers that they're trying to… to start the apocalypse. They're close too," she said quietly.

The taller man stared at Ruby, but he saw nothing. Gabriel had told Sam that he was meant to begin the end of days. But he made it sound far off, a distant dream of what could be. But it was here, it was here and he wasn't prepared for it. Sam brought a hand through his hair, clenching his jaw as he glanced up into the black sky. The stars still shone, but they dwindled and flickered like a candle's flame by an open window.

"Why should I trust you?" the hunter demanded, breaking free of his thoughts. "How can I be certain you're not lying to me?"

"You still have that holy oil I gave you?"

"…Yes?"

"You have all the information you want, so technically you don't need me anymore. Douse me and get it over with then," she snarled, throwing out her arms, like a sort of demonic Jesus, and offered herself to her own fate. Sam's face contorted into an expression of surprise, and he found himself unable to move. He still didn't hold any conviction that Ruby was trustworthy, but one could not deny she was willing to help.

And help was something he wasn't necessarily willing to pass up on these days. Besides, he could always just kill her later.

"Hurry up Winchester."

"I'm not going to kill you."

"You're not?"

"No. I'm going to give you once chance, and if you blow it I _will _kill you. Do you hear me?"

Ruby lowered her arms and smiled. "Definitely. We need to leave now if you want to ever see your father again. He'll be gone by morning."

"Duly noted," Sam commented dryly; despite the fact that his insides were practically doing summersaults. "We need to go back to the hotel in town first, however. I need to grab my bag and Gabe."

It was too dark to see the demon's expression change at the mention of the hunting specialist. "Is this "Gabe" a friend of yours?"

"Yes, and I need him with me if we're going to do this tonight."

"You can't tell him about us, Sam. He'd only kill me and I can't help you if I'm dead."

She had a point, but Gabriel was more important to him than her, not to mention they had been a team for a while now. If push came to shove, he'd choose his friend any day.

"Besides, is there anything you own that can even _harm_ a demon?" she asked innocently.

No, no he didn't have anything.

"That's what I thought. Look, we'll be in an out; and I can lend you something much better than any old bottle of holy water you lug around." From out of somewhere within the pockets of her jacket she produced what looked to be a vintage revolver.

"An old gun?"

"It's not just any old gun, you idiot, its special. This thing can kill anything."

"Anything?" Sam asked, skeptical.

"That's what I said, didn't I? But there's only eight bullets left, so don't waste them. I'm going to give it to you, and I'll take it back when I need it. Okay?"

Like Hell he was going to give it back, and they both knew it. "I promise."

"Good." Taking the gun by the barrel, she presented it to Sam handle-first. He took it, holding it with reverence. The antique was in amazing condition, and even though it looked like a perfectly normal gun he knew in his gut that it wasn't.

"Hold on to your hat," she smirked, grabbing a fistful of Sam's shoulder as they both blinked from the sidewalk and into nothingness.


	32. Chapter 32

Chapter 32: Messenger

ooo

Castiel was a run-of-the-mill seraph; not particularly powerful or mighty. Yes, it was true he was a soldier; a warrior of Heaven. But there were plenty more skilled than he. Still, Castiel was content where he was. If _average_ was all he was destined to be; then so be it. It was not his place to meddle with the order his father had created.

Lately, there had been chatter amongst the angels of something big. Mary Campbell and John Winchester had procreated. Dean and Sam Winchester had been born. To him at the time, this only meant the beginning of the apocalypse; the war in which they would create paradise on Earth and nothing more. What events were to lead up to the battle were none of his concern. He had faith in his father's plan.

Suffice to say Castiel was surprised when Anael called he and Uriel before her, long after that day but only a drop in the bucket to him. To the humans, Castiel assumed it had been a decade or two. The seraph had enjoyed millennia, watching from the background. Never had he thought he would be called into the thick of things.

"There is work to be done," she had said to them. The seraph noticed a note of exhaustion trailing her voice. Unusual indeed, but he did not press the topic. If she wanted to talk about it, it was up to her.

"There is always work to be done," Uriel commented dryly.

Anael ignored him, opting to explain herself further. "I have received orders from Michael that we must make certain the vessels are under no immediate threat. We are to ensure that the apocalypse goes according to our father's plan."

"And what would that entail?" Uriel asked, sounding vaguely annoyed. Castiel knew that his brother disliked going to Earth. _Dirt monkeys_ he had once called the humans, much to the seraph's dismay. He rather liked them, his father's creations; their innovations became increasingly more interesting as the ages passed. He admired their creativity.

"We must depart to Earth in order to watch over the vessels. They must be ready to assume their roles for when the time comes. This is of the upmost importance."

Castiel was shocked that they would play such an important role. "Why us, sister? Surely there are those better than us to take up this task," he questioned.

Anael sighed. "I do not know Michael's reasoning, and it is not our place to question his instructions. You know as well as I do that he knows our father's will, and would not lead us astray."

It was Uriel this time that jumped in. "_Earth_? The humans we are being sent to watch do not deserve our help. They are cruel, vile, creatures; arrogant and untrustworthy." The angel spat, his voice laced with malice. "Would it not be better for us to sit back and watch god's plan unfold before us? After all, a watched rat will not eat the cheese laid out in the trap."

"Watch your tongue," Anael commanded. "Or do you forget who your superior is?"

The brother fell silent.

"We will leave immediately, assuming you both are ready to depart?"

"I am prepared, Anael," Castiel responded quietly.

"Good. And you, Uriel?"

There was a moment of rebellious hesitation before he answered with a remote "yes, of course, sister". If he did not watch his temper; there would be trouble for sure. Castiel could feel it in the air.

ooo

It wasn't Castiel who was sent to watch Dean Winchester. Rather, it was _he_ who was tasked with hunting down the infamous brother; Sam. The seraph wasn't a fantastic tracker, but he certainly wasn't at the bottom of the barrel in that sense. But, for some odd reason, the man was nearly impossible to find. He just couldn't sense him anywhere. Something was hiding the hunter from his sight.

Being a rather powerful being, there were only a small number of ways that would be able to successfully conceal the younger Winchester for so long from his prying eye. At this rate, he would be forced to manually search the continent; and even at _his_ speeds the search could take months. That was something he wasn't sure Heaven had time for.

So, instead, the young seraph returned to where he knew his siblings would be waiting. The farmhouse sat in the center of a few acres of land. The tall grass was covered by a thin layer of snow. The apple groves in the background were bare of their leaves and coated with a jacket of ice that shone in the dim afternoon light. The air was full of the light scent of frost and the heat of the horses in the barn. The farmhouse itself had just been painted a mint green color; and its porch crisp and clean.

"Hello Castiel," Anael greeted him from where he had landed. She was alone, Uriel nowhere to be found, standing still in the new snow from a recent storm. "Did your search bear any results?"

"Is he here?" he asked her instead, dodging the question.

"Yes," she responded, looking somewhat pleased with herself, "he just went back inside."

"This is good news sister. How is he?" the seraph asked, his head tilting to the side in question.

"Frustrated. There's something troubling him, although I'm not entirely sure what. He seems to spend most of his free time rummaging through the barn."

"Is he looking for something?"

"I haven't asked," his sister replied, somewhat sarcastically. "Did you find the younger brother?"

It seemed there was no avoiding the answer now. "No, I was not able to locate him," Castiel said in a gravelly, disappointed voice. "And it was not for lack of trying."

"Then why?"

"I think something is hiding him, something powerful. You know as well as I do that there are very few things in this universe that could hide someone like Sam Winchester successfully for so long. Although, I must admit I do not know what it could be."

The more powerful angel sighed, thinking. "…There may be a way to find who or what is preventing us from locating Lucifer's vessel."

Castiel turned more fully towards his sister, attention focused on her. "And what would that be?"

"It is an old spell and would require time to prepare. If you would, can you collect a few things for me? As quickly as possible, if that is okay."

"Of course, sister. What do you need?"

Anael listed a series of ingredients, each as rare and hard to find as the last. "While you find those, I will prepare the ritual. It will take time, and must be exact if it is to work."

"I see," Castiel responded, his mouth pulling into a thin line. "I will meet you soon, then. Good luck." With that having been said, the seraph took flight with the soft sound of feathers and the rustling of canvas fabric.

ooo

Sam knew the moment he had agreed to go with Ruby that demonic travel was his least favorite mode of transportation to date. As soon as the unusual pair landed, the Winchester felt the bile rising in the back of his throat.

"You look like you're going to puke," Ruby commented, a perfect eyebrow rising into an arc.

He didn't respond. Rather, the hunter stumbled towards a nearby bush and heaved up whatever food he had ingested that day.

"We don't have all night, Winchester," the demon chastised mockingly.

"Alright, alright," Sam managed to say before he again retched into the filthy leaves. After another moment, he straitened himself; wiping off some kind of soup from the corner of his mouth. He took in his surroundings. The sky was overcast and lit up orange from a city far off in the distance. In front of them towered the foreboding old steel mill. It cast long, dark shadows over the parking lot. All Sam could hear was the sound of a single cricket and the creaking of the building. A faint scent of eggs and metal lingered in the thin air.

"Ready to roll?" she asked. "I think I can sense them; they're still here."

"Yeah," the hunter responded; feeling to make sure the colt was still in the hem of his jeans. The weapon had not moved; the comforting object still pressed into his hip. "How many did you say were in there?"

"There are five, not including your dad."

The Winchester remembered Lance mentioning that John had been hanging out with some short blonde girl; could _she_ have been a demon? If so, what had they been doing together? Were they plotting something for the apocalypse? That seemed to be all anyone was interested in these past few months. Sometimes he missed the simplicity of yet another ghost hunt. At least back then he had an idea of what he was doing.

"Okay. How do we get in without them knowing we're coming?" Sam inquired.

"Simple. We walk in through the front door."

"Won't they know we're coming?"

"That's the idea," Ruby responded, a malevolent twinkle in her eye.

"What happens once we are inside?"

She smiled and clasped her hands together. "I've taken the liberty to draw a devil's trap onto the ceiling in the main room. All you've got to do is lure them under it, and the rest will take care of itself."

"A devil's trap?" he asked. "That sounds familiar; what is it?"

"I wouldn't be surprised if you hadn't heard of it. It's pretty old stuff," she explained. "It's a circle that traps demons inside of it. They're powerless once they cross the border."

"So, if you were to step inside…"

"I'm not going to, stupid. Nice try."

The hunter sighed. If he had his way, Ruby would be gone too.

"It sounds like you have this completely planned out," he deadpanned. "You didn't need my help after all. So why did you come and find me?"

"I needed bait," the demon admitted. "It wouldn't work as well if I tried to lead them into the trap myself. They would see right through me, not to mention I would probably end up under the sigil as well. You, on the other hand, are an invaluable prize that they won't be able to resist, and should have an easier time escaping than I would."

He should have expected as much. At least she was truthful about it.

"I see. And how exactly am I going to do this? Just walk in and say "Hey guys, I was having car trouble and was wondering if you could help?" Yeah, that'll work."

"I'm sure you'll figure it out."

"So where do you come in with all of this?"

"Consider me your backup. Things go south? I'll be there to spirit you away. Otherwise, expect me when they're stuck under the devil's trap. I'll finish up the job, and next thing you know you've got John back and you won't see me again- probably."

Sam made a noise of agreement.

"Good. Now, we're losing time. It's now or never. Get in there and knock 'em dead." Having said that, the woman disappeared from sight, off to god-knows where.

The Winchester couldn't believe what he was about to do. How had he ended up here? Just over a year before he had been attacked by Azazel in a factory much like this one. Now Sam was going to be hunting the demons. How the tables have turned.

The building seemed taller and darker as he approached it. As he walked, he began to think. What if this was a trap Ruby had set? What if this was an elaborate plot Ruby had devised to get rid of him and John once and for all?

No, he doubted it. If she had wanted to kill him, she could have done it earlier. She had given him a chance to kill her, and she had handed over the colt. Sam knew he could trust her, but he couldn't _trust_ her; not by a long shot.

The huge metal door creaked as he slid it open, the sound of the rust grinding against itself sent shivers down the hunter's back. Inside the building was black. The windows high above him were covered in many years' worth of grime and dirt. The air was saturated with dust and stale pollen. The sound of rats echoed off the walls.

The Winchester entered with caution. He made no sound as he snuck through the maze of inactive conveyor belts and cold furnaces. After a few minutes, he felt his eyes finally adjust to the dim lighting of the mill. Sam looked up, and sure enough; a huge sigil had been painted onto the ceiling. He wished he could make out the details in order to recreate it, but unfortunately it was too dark and too far away.

From somewhere up ahead, he could hear voices.

"…too soon. We can't start until she has arrived," someone was saying in a hushed tone.

"We don't know when she will come," another replied, annoyed. "We may as well get a head start now; before heaven gets involved in this game as well."

There was a sarcastic laugh. "I doubt the apocalypse can be likened to a game. Besides, you know she will want to make sure everything goes off without a hitch herself. And since the first seal has been broken, I would imagine that she will return within the month."

Who was this 'she' they were talking about? Sam crept closer, hoping to hear them better. Instead, the Winchester accidentally stepped on a loose pipe; knocking it loose. Steam hissed out, scalding the bare flesh of his arm. The hunter yelped, leaping to his feet.

"What was that? Who's there?" A voice shouted. It was a vaguely familiar feminine voice. But there was no time to ponder where he had heard it before. They were coming for him, and he needed to get the hell out of dodge.

The hunter could hardly see a thing. It was a wonder he hadn't run into anything yet. The demons were gaining on him fast. They were closing in. Sam wasn't sure he'd be able to get to the devil's trap in enough time.

_Crash!_

The Winchester ploughed over some kind of machine. As he did a roll, Sam realized he had probably broken a shin, maybe both. He landed painfully in a heap, his elbow lodging itself into a crack, and his skull split against the corner of a metal box. Sam's head spun as he tried to figure out which way was up.

"Over here," the feminine voice called. "Well, if it isn't Sam Winchester," she chuckled. A light silhouette approached the spot where he lay. As the hunter's vision came into focus, he began to make out the details of the girl.

"I know you…?" he slurred, trying desperately to free his arm from where it was wedged. The more he tugged, the more certain he was that he had dislocated it.

"You'd think I would make a more lasting impression," the demon smiled. "Let's try this again. The name is Meg. Meg Masterson. I helped you out of a snowdrift in… Montana, was it?"

He remembered. They hadn't known each other for more than ten minutes. Even then, Sam knew there was something off about this girl. "Well, fuck you then, Meg."

Meg frowned, her arms folding in front of her. "All you Winchesters are the same. Ever think of attending an anger management class? Ah, speaking of your father… Say hello to your dad."

The Winchester craned his head to get a better view of his surroundings. There, a group of people were approaching; five in all from what he could tell. At the head of the pack was none other than John. "Dad!" he called out.

The older man smirked. It looked foreign on his lips. "The lights aren't on right now, Sammy. But I'll take a message."

"Let him go!" he demanded.

"I don't really think you're in a position to be making demands right now, silly boy."

Sam grinded his teeth as he felt his arm slip a little bit. "What do you want with him, you bastard?"

"Nothing with him," John said, "He'll be fine. It's _you_ we're more interested in."

Meg jumped in. "Look, we don't want to hurt you. Quite the opposite actually. All you need to do is cooperate and everything will be just fine."

This could be a good way to quire information, actually. If he could just play along; Sam might be able to learn something valuable. The only problem after that would be the matter of escaping. "What do you want?" he inquired.

Both John and Meg looked slightly surprised he hadn't put up more of a fight. However, they recovered their wits quickly. "How are those dreams coming along?" his father asked.

They meant his premonitions. "What of them?" he asked, sounding suspicious even to his own ears.

"They're only going to get stronger, you realize," Meg explained in a softer voice. She knelt down next to him, extending a hand. It was then Sam felt his arm wrench free from where it had been trapped. "We can help you learn to control them. You can use your powers to help people."

"Why would you want to help me?"

"Because you're special, Sam."

The hunter hesitated for a moment, pretending to consider their offer. While they were distracted, he slipped his good hand under his jacket and grabbed the revolver. Now was the moment of truth.

"Sam," John began, taking a step towards his son. "I know this is hard for you to understand, but this is what's best for you."

"You're not my dad," the hunter growled, pulling out the colt and aiming it at his own father. Nobody seemed to realize what was going on, least of all John. "I'm sorry dad. Please forgive me." The hunter knew he wouldn't want to live this way, and in Sam's condition there was no way in hell he'd be able to make it to the devil's trap alive. There was only one thing left to do.

He pulled the trigger and fired.


End file.
